A Simple Assignment
by Aeryn Alexander
Summary: Alastor Moody has a job to do. A very simple one in fact: check on Harry Potter during the summer. But he gets more than he bargains for. Yet another rough-summer-for-Harry story. But this one is obviously a little different.
1. Even the best laid plans

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all who reside therein belong to the woman whose name is on the side of the books: J.K. Rowling. And certainly not to me.  
Title: A Simple Assignment  
Author: Aeryn Alexander  
Summary: Alastor Moody has a job to do. A very simple one in fact: check on Harry Potter during the summer. But he gets more than he bargains for. Yet another rough-summer-for-Harry story. But this one is obviously a little different.  
Rating: PG-13 (mild - moderate violence, abuse, mild language, and thematic elements)  
Genre: General/drama/angst  
Year: Summer before 5th year (complies with GoF canon; not with OotP speculation/canon).  
Author's notes: I have never written first-person perspective fan fiction before. I didn't think there was a character I liked well enough or identified with sufficiently for it to be feasible. I hope to God I was wrong about that. I'm not sure if anyone has used this precise storyline (with Moody) before, but this basic plot is one of my favorite cliches. I thought I would have a go at it. This story is a work-in-progress (WIP), so neither the middle nor the end is in sight. I don't even know if I will be able to finish it. Consider that a warning of sorts. I am not taking into account that Order of the Phoenix will be out soon. If that makes this AU, then so be it. I'm also in the process of removing 'hard stops' from my dialog. All feedback is appreciated (as always), but flames will be used to defrost my air conditioner. Thank you.  
  
  


* * *

  
A Simple Assignment  
  
  
Chapter One  
  
Even the best laid plans  
  
  
  
Standing in front of the muggle house, which looked even more ordinary than I had imagined, I almost wished that I had taken Albus Dumbledore up on his offer of a glamour, something to make me blend in properly with all of this. The neatly trimmed lawns. The muggle automobiles. The nearly uniform houses. Everything here. But it was too late to change my mind. I straightened my clothes, uncomfortable muggle garments the like of which I had not worn in several years. I plucked at the shirt and sighed before walking up to the door.  
  
I knew that it wasn't going to go very well before even knocking. Dumbledore had sent me to Privet Drive to check on young Harry Potter. He had never said precisely why he was concerned, but Albus always had his reasons, even if they were clear to anyone but him at the time. In the end he always seemed to be right. And that worried me more than I wanted to admit as I stood hesitating on the stoop.   
  
He had informed me that the muggles, the Dursleys, he called them, were opposed to magic. That was enough to make me rather concerned. What was James and Lily's son doing living with people like that? I didn't get a proper answer to that one either. Ancient magic? His own protection? That was all well and good, but if he needed checking up on ... what did that really say about the situation?  
  
"And why me of all people?" I muttered.  
  
Why didn't he ask any of the other professors? The ones who were still employed by the school? Most of them were busy, and I could hardly find fault with that. They were all doing their part for the war effort. And this was my part: checking to make certain that Harry Potter was getting on all right with his muggle relatives.  
  
Of course, I conceded, feeling a sudden wave of shame wash over me, it was a compliment that Albus still trusted me to do this for him. I had been hood-winked by a Dark Wizard and left to rot in a trunk for the better part of the school year. At least Albus believed I was competent enough to manage this. And well enough too. I grimaced and remembered Poppy Pomfrey's admonishing words to me before I left Hogwarts.  
  
"Take it easy, Mister Moody, and be sure to see me when you come back," she had said, like I was an invalid or an old man.  
  
I hung my head for a moment, considering the possibility that she just might be right. That thought had been occurring to me more and more since I woke up in the hospital wing with only vague and hazy memories regarding the previous months.  
  
"I've a job to do," I growled, finally knocking on the front door of number four, Privet Drive.  
  
I straightened my clothes again, almost compulsively even by my own estimation, and with a slight wince. I was here to see about Potter, not to cause a scene. Then again, there wasn't any reason why I couldn't do both, I realized as the door opened.  
  
When I saw the woman who answered the door, my initial reaction was that she simply could not be Lily Potter's sister, which is what Albus had told me she was. Then I noticed something about her eyes, the shape of them, and perhaps her chin. And then her ear-splitting shriek as she got a good look at me. Yes, she had a very Lily-like scream, that woman.  
  
"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm looking for Mister Harry Potter. I'm from his school," I told her once she stopped screaming. "Might I come inside?" I questioned.  
  
"I don't believe ..." began Mrs. Dursley, pursing her lips and looking thoroughly disagreeable.  
  
"Headmaster Dumbledore sent me here. I really must insist upon seeing him," I told her, stepping forward.   
  
In the past I had found it rather easy to intimidate muggles when necessary. But was more difficult that afternoon, and not because this was the sister of Lily Potter - I can't remember if I ever knew her unmarried name. I had been retired from the business of being an Auror for almost seven years when I had the great misfortune of being abducted by Voldemort's henchmen and stuffed in my own trunk. And I would never admit it to anyone, but by my estimation, I just wasn't back in good condition yet.  
  
Of course, the woman at the door had turned pale when she looked at my magical eye and at my wooden leg and had done the only thing I imagine she could have done. She called for her husband, and as it was a fine Saturday afternoon in mid July, he came.  
  
Mister Dursley was a great, lumbering man. I can't recall the last time I saw someone so overweight. Then I saw a boy of fifteen or so standing in the hallway behind him ...  
  
Before I could sufficiently recover from my astonishment, Mister Dursley asked me, "What is the meaning of this?"  
  
"My name is Alastor Moody, and I'm here to see Mister Potter. I ... I am affiliated with your nephew's school," I explained as I watched him go sort of red in the face.  
  
"We don't like your kind around here ..." he began to tell me, wagging his finger at me.  
  
"Just allow me to have a few minutes with the boy, and I will be on my way," I said in the most placating tone I could manage.  
  
The two of them exchanged nervous glances and I felt a chill run up my spine. I forced my way into the house and closed the door behind me as the Dursleys continued to seem rather uncomfortably nervous. Granted, I was a stranger and not very easy on the eyes, but that did not appear to be what was bothering them.  
  
"You can't see him right now," said Vernon Dursley - Albus had told me their given names, not that it mattered very much.  
  
"Oh?" I questioned, not liking the sound of that one bit.  
  
"He's asleep," said Petunia hastily.  
  
That was even worse. I had heard muggles use 'sleeping' as an untidy euphemism for 'dead' on more than one occasion and that did not set well with me at that moment.  
  
"At five o'clock in the afternoon?" I asked them.  
  
"He's a lazy little bastard," said Vernon.  
  
I raised an eyebrow at that and had removed my wand from my pocket before I even realized it. James and Lily were among the best people I had known during the last years of the Dark Lord's reign, and according to Albus, their son was growing into a person of real merit. The barb stung. But I knew that getting angry was not the answer here.  
  
"Where?" I growled as menacingly as possible.  
  
"In his room, but you shouldn't disturb him," said Petunia, unconsciously wringing her hands in a gesture of anxiety.  
  
I glanced over their shoulders and into the living room down the hallway. I had a bad feeling. They were covering something up, and it certainly wasn't their hatred or contempt for wizards, young Potter especially.  
  
"Step in there," I instructed, pointing them toward the living room with my wand and deciding not to take any unnecessary risks.  
  
They went, all three of them, quite obediently, obviously rather afraid of magic, which served my purposes for that moment.  
  
I followed them to the doorway and stopped, watching them walk inside and stand near the hearth, as far away from the door and from me as possible. But how to keep them there ... without breaking any wizarding laws. I smiled, which made them pale even more.  
  
Waving my wand through the air in an exaggerated fashion, I said, "Sinus hex us and a ... road, turn anyone who leaves this room into a toad!"  
  
I truly loved that one. It was all mumbo-jumbo, of course, but muggles always seemed to believed that one if they believed in wizards at all. I considered finishing it off with a good 'bippity-boppity-boo!', but then I had other matters to attend to. I took one last look at the trembling Dursleys and started for the stairs, secure in the knowledge that they would be too frightened to leave that room for some time.  
  
This was supposed to be a simply assignment, I thought, as I clumped up the stairs to the second level of the house. Just see that the young man wasn't being mistreated, that he wasn't suffering too terribly from what had happened at the Triwizard Tournament, that he was all right. Then maybe go for a butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron and return to the castle with a good report. Neat as neat. Or it should have been.  
  
Once I reached the upstairs of the house, I noticed three doors. Two were merely closed. One was closed and padlocked. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the locked one probably belonged to Potter. It only made sense, I acknowledged.  
  
"If you have someone or something in your house that you don't trust, you keep 'em under lock and key," I told myself, but not liking the idea at all when applied to a young wizard like Potter.   
  
I had only seen the boy once, at the end of year festivities some weeks earlier, and had no special liking of him, except that I had known his folks. They had been decent people, though James Potter and I had not always seen eye to eye. Well, that was the past; this was the present. His son deserved better than to be locked in his room and shunned by his only relations.  
  
With a quickly mumbled spell I had the lock off the door, which I then open slowly and cautiously. It did not even so much as creak. The room inside was almost pitch dark. The window, I noted, had been boarded up tightly so that not even the afternoon sunlight could filter through the space between the boards. It was also eerily quiet. And I didn't like that one bit.  
  
As an Auror I had gone into rooms where people had been tortured and killed. It was part of the job. Simple as that. Other men had caught a whiff of the lingering scent of pain, blood, and fear and had immediately emptied the contents of their stomachs. That had never been me, and maybe some of my younger, less experienced colleagues had thought me heartless because of it. Of course, if they had lived through the days of Grindelwald, maybe they would be just the same.  
  
As I stepped into the room that I knew to be Potter's bedroom, I could not help but to feel another chill as I recognized the smell of sweat and pain, which remained familiar to me in my retirement.  
  
"_Lumos_," I whispered, not bothering reach for the light switch on the wall.  
  
The small room was bathed in a gentle yellow glow. Rather poor accommodations, I thought, though I suppose I shouldn't be so particular after spending the better part of the previous year in a trunk. An empty cage sat in the corner. I hoped that whatever had occupied it was merely out hunting or delivering a message if it was an owl. There was also a bed in the other corner of the room.  
  
"Potter?" I questioned quietly as I walked over to the bed.  
  
There was a motionless form lying beneath a thin and ragged blanket that covered the bed. His dark hair was tousled and messy. And he looked very pale and underfed too. It was Harry Potter. I recognized him mostly by the lightning shaped scar on his forehead because he seemed so much thinner and did not have his glasses on.  
  
A horrible thought occurred to me as I reached toward him. He wasn't moving ... I held by breath as placed my fingertips against his neck to check for a pulse. Potter flinched away from the touch ever-so-slightly. I breathed a sigh of relief. His eyelids flickered, but he didn't wake up.  
  
"Potter," I said, shaking him by the shoulder. Nothing. "Wake up," I said, realizing then that the young wizard seemed rather ill.  
  
I cautiously felt his forehead. He was burning up with a fever. I was certain that no one, meaning those muggles downstairs, was taking care of him.  
  
Then I noticed something. My magical eye, which was all too often telling me things that I'd rather not know, caught a glimpse of something through the blankets and worn nightclothes: bruises. I pulled the blanket back in astonishment to get a better look. There weren't so many of them, but far too many to be caused by simple accidents or natural causes. I felt rather certain that the cretins downstairs had done this to Potter. I set my jaw as thoughts about going back down there and teaching them a lesson entered my head.  
  
The flash of anger carried me half way to the door, intending to have words, and perhaps more than just words, with the elder Dursleys. It was apparent to me that Potter needed medication and maybe medical attention. Didn't they care?  
  
"Help me," said a soft voice mumbled.  
  
I paused at the door of the room and turned again, getting a handle on my temper as I realized that Harry was conscious.  
  
"That won't do," I reprimanded myself for my momentary fit of temper. "I was sent here to see about Potter, not them."  
  
Returning to his bedside, I saw that his eyes were open. And, Merlin, his eyes were just as green as poor Lily's had been. He looked confused as he squinted up at me. I know I probably wasn't the first person he expected to see. I glanced at the desk by his bed and saw his glasses. I picked them up and gently placed them on his face so that he could see properly.  
  
"Don't be scared. I'm not here to hurt you," I assured him as his eyes widened.  
  
That statement actually brought up a good point. I was there to check up on the boy and make sure that everything was all right. Albus had given me no instructions whatsoever regarding what I was supposed to do if I found out that Potter was not doing well, which was certainly the case.  
  
I looked at him for a long moment, watching him shivered slightly under the covers. If I removed him from the house, I would exceeding my mandate, I debated with myself. But if I left him there, I could not readily say what would become of him. Could I frighten or intimidate his relatives into caring for him? I didn't think so. My instincts told me that he needed medical attention, or at the very least someone to look after him, which meant that I had to get him out of there.  
  
"Pro... Professor," mumbled Potter hoarsely.  
  
"Where are your things, lad?" I questioned him, feeling suddenly resigned.  
  
"My ... wand ... floor boards," he answered.   
  
I wondered if he was delirious, then I checked the boards beneath his bed with my magical eye and saw his wand a few school things stashed away there. I knelt and removed the board. Then I placed the wand in my pocket and shrunk the other things before tucking them away too.  
  
"You don't have a trunk?" I asked.  
  
"Cupboard, under the stairs," he whispered, beginning to lose consciousness again.  
  
I considered casting Ennervate on him and trying to coax him into some clothes. His was wearing sleep wear at the moment that seemed rather large on his thin frame. But I decided that it would probably only make things worse. His body was trying to conserve energy, trying to keep him alive. I didn't want to take any chances by forcing to exert too much energy when it was obvious that he was very sick.  
  
Instead I wrapped the blanket around him and pocketed my wand before lifting him from bed and hoisting him over my shoulder. On one hand he was surprisingly light. On the other I was feeling rather unfortunately weaker than usual. Then I wondered if these people had fed him a single meal in the last three weeks. I adjusted his weight and heard him groan weakly in protest.  
  
"Easy, Potter," I growled before walking out of the bedroom and down the stairs with him.  
  
When I reached the bottom, I set him down carefully and went to fetch his trunk, discovering the cupboard in question quite easily. Located inside were his trunk, all locked up tight, and his broom, which looked like a rather good one. I momentarily considered checking inside the trunk to make sure nothing dangerous had been slipped inside.  
  
"Must hurry," I muttered to myself before magically shrinking both articles and putting them in my pockets. I could thoroughly examine everything later.  
  
As I left the cupboard, my eyes drifted to the living room. I felt a stab of anger. No, I couldn't leave without saying something.  
  
They were all sitting on the sofa, looking rather worried. The pig-like boy was fidgeting, and the sofa groaned beneath his weight. The other two were eyeing the doors nervously. Petunia, if I remember her name correctly, gave a soft shriek when I appeared.  
  
"If I were a lesser man, what I would do to all of you ..." I growled menacingly. "But I will leave it to others to settle your accounts. Mister Potter is coming with me," I said to them.  
  
"V... Very well," nodded Mister Dursley.  
  
I was beginning to lose my temper again. Those stupid muggles didn't even care that a complete stranger was taking their nephew from their home. I could be a Death Eater. I could be anyone for all they knew. I rubbed my good eye for a moment as I looked into the living room at them and reminded myself that not all muggles were like them. I knew that some of them had just as loving families and were just as capable parents as wizards were. They weren't all bad. They were all as neglecting or as evil as this particular family of muggles.   
  
And I wanted to make them pay for it, but then, I was a better person than them. I couldn't turn them into a snake and two mice, though the thought occurred to me. I could only go and get Potter and leave.  
  
"I've got what I came for. You're lucky that the headmaster sent me. I can only imagine what some of the lad's teachers would have done if they'd seen the way you were treating him. I'll be on my way now," I said, giving them cold hard stares each in turn.  
  
"Wait!" shouted Vernon as I turned to go.  
  
"Yes?" I growled impatiently.  
  
"The spell ... Aren't you going to take it off?" he questioned.  
  
I smiled, which made the woman on the sofa gasp in revulsion, and said, "No, I believe I'll be leaving it in place. Give you some time to think about what you've done."  
  
Then I walked back into the hallway, feeling the tiniest bit satisfied. There would be no one coming from the 'Accidental' Magical Reversal Department to save them as no magic had been performed on them or on the room. So they would be sitting there for a good long time, I imagined.  
  
Of course, I was facing a bigger problem than working out a fitting punishment for those wretched people: how to transport Harry Potter and to where. I sat down next to him on the stairs for a moment, feeling his forehead and checking his pulse while I tried to work it out.   
  
He would be safest with Albus at Hogwarts, not to mention under Poppy Pomfrey's care. But getting there would be difficult ... Potter could not travel by floo in his condition, even if I had access to a floo to travel by. I could take a risk and apparate with him, but that would only get us to Hogsmeade. Wonderful place for a Death Eater attack. Masked figures had made an appearance there only two nights ago ...  
  
I frowned as I tried to think of other places where he would be safe. I had a cottage, secluded place that very few people knew about. I had not visited it since the previous summer before I returned to the city in order to prepare to teach. I would have been safer there ...  
  
I shook my head. Maybe I would have been. It was well warded, unlike the house in the muggle neighborhood, and that was the important thing. I could take Potter there, make sure he didn't die or anything, and contact Albus by floo. That was a good plan, in my humble opinion.  
  
There were anti-Apparition wards on the house, which meant that I had to carry Potter outside before attempting the foolhardy stunt that I had in mind. I tried to be gentle with him as I scooped him up off the stairs and left the house. His eyes opened, and I caught him staring up at me. I was probably a frightening sight to him, and not just for the usual reasons.  
  
"Where am I?" coughed Potter in a faint voice.  
  
"Safe, Potter, you're safe," I said in a gruff, growling voice as I set Potter down on the ground outside for a moment. I didn't want the boy to think I was kidnapping him, though in strictest of terms that was probably the case.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he mumbled.  
  
"I'm not going to harm you," I assured the young wizard. "I just need to take you away from here. Think you can manage to help me?"  
  
"Yes, sir," he replied. His teeth were chattering. I could tell that he did not feel at all well even as he said, "I'll try."  
  
"Good lad," I nodded. "Can you stand up?"  
  
He struggled to rise for a moment before I slipped my hands under his shoulders and hauled him upright. It had been a silly suggestion. Potter was barely conscious. Why should he be able to stand up on his own? He obviously had a high fever and possibly some of those bruises indicated broken or cracked ribs or other serious injuries.  
  
As I pulled him closer, Potter struggled weakly with a look of absolute terror in his eyes.  
  
"Potter, I said that I won't hurt you. You're going to have to take my word for it, because there is no other assurance I can give you," I growled. "Put your arms around my neck. We're going to disapparate away from this place," I explained.  
  
I had read in _Five Hundred Ways Not to Splinch Yourself_ that when attempting to apparate or disapparate with another person, that close proximity yielded better results, especially when both individuals could not cast the spell.  
  
Harry nodded mutely, but I could tell that his compliance was reticent. His thin arms were trembling, and he squeezed his eyes closed. I could more than understand his reluctance to trust me. His own family had treated him very badly, abusively even. Why trust a stranger not to do worse? I had done nothing to earn his trust, and of course there had been that nasty business with my impostor ... But that could not be helped. It was already done.  
  
I took a deep breath and put an arm securely around his waist before disapparating away from Privet Drive with Harry Potter.  
  
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A/N: Someone is asking themselves right now if wizards get sick like ordinary muggles. Based on Trelawney's flu prediction in PoA and the existence of Pepperup Potion, I am going to answer in the affirmative.  
  
  



	2. Potions and conversations

Chapter Two  
  
Potions and conversations  
  
  
  
When we arrived at the cottage, which was chilly and had been vacant for some time, I realized that Harry had passed out during transit. With a few waves of my wand, I had a fire lit in the hearth and fresh linens on the bed, which was tucked away in a very defensible corner of the large open room that also included a small parlor-like space near the hearth and an adequately sized kitchen. The bath was near at hand as well.  
  
I lifted Harry again, extracting a rattling sigh from him, and gently deposited him on the bed before pulling up a chair. I reached under the bed and pulled out a medical kit that I kept stashed there. One could never be too prepared. I had needed it myself more than a few times over the years. I rummaged through the box, looking for something that I could give him for his fever and something to take care of those bruises. Of course, I realized, he would need something for the pain and any possible internal injuries as well. I wasn't in the mood for taking chances, though I suspected that his wounds were only skin deep.  
  
I frowned immediately when I began to skim the warning label on the Fever-reducing potion.   
  
"_Do not use with the following other medicinal substances_," it said, before listing everything from dreamless sleep potions to bruise remedies to stomach tonics to simple healing potions. Swearing quietly, I returned the potion to the kit and rubbed my face with both hands. I could still take away all of the nasty bruises, but using the fever remedy was out of the question. That bit would have to be done the old-fashioned muggle way.  
  
With a sigh I removed a jar filled with a lime green substance and labeled 'Bruise Remedy' from the box of supplies. A pungent, although not entirely unpleasant aroma wafted from the container as it was opened. It reminded me of a combination of spices, one of which I felt certain was rosemary, and white gardenia after a summer shower, but much stronger. Many of the things in the kit smelled far worse; I knew that from experience.  
  
After tossing the ragged blanket aside and making a mental note to dispose of it later, I carefully unbuttoned Potter's over large nightshirt, which hid many of the colorful marks that his relatives had given him. I wasn't certain who was to blame for them, although I very strongly suspected that it was the head of the Dursley household. I had not liked the look of that man, and he seemed most capable of brutality, though his wife seemed as though she was not above hitting the young man with a rolling pin or something if she were in a foul mood.  
  
"Merlin's beard! Where to even begin!" I thought to myself, sitting down on the edge of the bed to begin my work and dipping my fingers into the cool and gooey medicinal substance.  
  
His skin radiated a disconcerting amount of heat as I rubbed the greenish balm into his skin where it was bruised. The ugly marks shrank and disappeared within minutes. It was almost as though they had never been. The varying shades of older and newer bruises gave way to the pale color of his skin. It was in some small way quite satisfying to see them vanish. If only there weren't so many of them.  
  
But I also fought to keep my anger in check as I massaged the bruises away, but it wasn't easy. Potter, if I remembered correctly, was nearly fifteen years old. Had he endured this sort of treatment since the death of his parents? Had anyone known? Had anyone cared?  
  
The jar was almost as empty as I began applying the potion to the last of the visible marks, a bit of purple near Potter's navel. He moaned weakly in protest and spasmed sharply away from my touch.  
  
I wiped my slightly sticky and gooey hands on my trousers and tried to hush him, sounding awkward and fumbling even in my own ears.  
  
"There, there, lad. I'm only making the bruises go away. Nothing to worry about," I said in a softer growl than usual.   
  
If only my vocal cords hadn't been so damaged, I might have been better able to console the boy. But it was the best that I could manage. And besides, learning how to comfort people had not been included in Auror training, and I had failed to pick up the skill on my own along the way.  
  
"Are you really you?" he asked me feverishly. His eyelids seemed heavy.  
  
"Yes, I am," I said with a bit of a smile. "Professor Dumbledore sent me to check on you. I didn't like what I found, so I brought you here," I explained slowly and carefully.  
  
"Can I have something to drink? Please?" questioned Harry, growing at least marginally more lucid. He sucked his dry lower lip. I was willing to bet that he had had precious little to drink in days. Very dangerous, especially with that fever.  
  
"Of course, lad," I nodded, reaching for my hip flask, which was the nearest thing at hand.   
  
Then I paused, looked at the flask, which I counted among my most personal possessions as it was very nearly poison proof and a gift from my late father, and then I looked at Harry.  
  
"He doesn't have anything he could slip in here, does he?" I thought to myself. "Of course not. He doesn't have any pockets or anywhere else to hide anything," I decided, and what were the chances of it being something that the silver flask couldn't magically counter? Rather slim, but still ...  
  
"Check his mouth," I thought quickly, anxiously. After my recent lapse in vigilance, it was hard not to give into the paranoiac impulses and reflexes that I developed over the years. They had served me well as an Auror, but no so much since I had given the occupation up.   
  
"Don't badger the boy," I thought as I argued silently with myself.  
  
I finally, after that moment of hesitation, handed the flask to Potter and slipped an arm behind him to sit him up. Fear flashed through Potter's very expressive eyes and his hands were shaking as he raised the flask hesitantly to his lips.  
  
"That's a good lad," I said as he slowly sipped from the silver container. He was smart enough not to gulp. Or else cautious.  
  
"It's water," said Harry in mild surprise.  
  
I chuckled softly and asked, "You didn't think I walked around at all hours of the day, on duty and off, dulling my wits and slowing my reaction time with spirits, now did you, Potter?"  
  
"I never gave it very much thought," he answered, returning the flask.  
  
I could not resist taking a cautious sniff of it before replacing the cap and tucking it away again. Old habits, unfortunately, die very hard.  
  
"Potter," I said to him, reclining him back against the rather firm pillow, "you have a very high fever right now, and I can't give you a potion for it, but we must get that fever down."  
  
"All right," he said, sounding rather lethargic. I could hardly blame him.  
  
"We have to do this the muggle way," I explain, leaving my spot on the edge of the bed. Potter looked at me blankly. I don't think he understood. "A lukewarm bath," I told him. Maybe I imagined the nervous look in his eyes. "It's got to be done or you'll cook from the inside out," I said to him.  
  
"Yes, sir," he said.  
  
"I'm going to run you a bath," I growled. "Stay put while I'm gone," I instructed him, sounding perhaps a bit too severe. He only nodded mutely and closed his eyes.  
  
The stone floor of the bath was magically heated, making the room a few degrees warmer than the main room of the cottage. I could feel the warmth through the soles of the thin muggle shoes I was wearing as I started filling the old tub. The sound of the water rattling through the aging pipes before spilling into the basin was rather soothing. And my nerves needed it.  
  
Albus had given me instructions to make sure that Potter was doing all right. The end result of carrying out those instructions was that I had an ill young wizard lying in the other room. I had few doubts that I could do the simple things here: get his fever down, provide the medical attention that he needed, and keep him safely hidden away from Voldemort at least for the moment. But from what I had been told about the end of his school year, including the death of his classmate Cedric Diggory, and what I had seen myself of his summer, Potter was going to need more than just a soak in a tub and some potions to set him right again. Was I really qualified to handle such matters?  
  
When I returned to the other room, Potter appeared to be sleeping. I sat down on the edge of the bed and shook him gently awake. His eyes looked bleary behind his glasses as he opened them.  
  
"Don't be afraid," I told him as he shied away from me.  
  
"It isn't because you're ... It's because I'm ... You wouldn't understand," said Harry quietly.  
  
"Wouldn't I?" I laughed softly. I thought I knew what he meant by that: not because I'm _me_, but because he was not feeling like himself. "Never mind that. Move at your own pace, but we don't have all evening," I advised, holding out my arm to him. I knew he wouldn't be able to walk to the bath without a little assistance. He didn't look strong enough.  
  
"Thank you, sir," he mumbled before accepting my help.  
  
When we entered the bathroom, I noticed Potter glancing from the clawed feet of the antiquated tub to the claw at the end of my wooden leg. I wondered what he, feverish and very unsteady on his feet, was thinking.  
  
"Can you undress and get into the tub without any help?" I questioned.  
  
"I think so," said Potter. A flush of scarlet crept into his pale cheeks as he took his eyes of the tub and look up at me.  
  
"Well, you won't need to worry about passing out and drowning," I informed him, tapping my wooden leg against the basin, "as I have charmed the tub to prevent anyone from drowning in it. If my enemies want to drown me, then they'll just have to bring their own damn tub." It was one of the many safety features of the cottage, most of which I had put into place myself over the course of the years. Though the fixture was quite old, I was rather proud of the impressive array of charms that had been placed on it.  
  
"Thank you," said Harry awkwardly as I let go of him to be sure that he could stand unassisted for a few moments. I think he might have given me an odd look most likely concerning the tub.  
  
"Do you want me to stay or would you rather have some time to yourself?" I asked him as he swayed slightly.  
  
Harry hung his head for a moment and answered, "Some time, sir, if you don't mind."  
  
"Of course not," I said with a firm nod. I had expected that answer, but being an admittedly poor judge of how other people felt, I thought that I should ask him. "Call out if you need anything or if the water gets too cold for you," I said before clumping out of the bath and closing the door. I left it ever-so-slightly ajar so that I could hear him if he yelled for me.  
  
  
I walked over to the hearth and the conjured fire that I had lit earlier. It was time to get in touch with Dumbledore. I knew what I wanted to do about the situation, other than slowly and mercilessly torture the people who were responsible for Potter's condition. I wanted either to send him to Albus, who could protect him in any eventuality, or keep him there with me at the cottage, which was rather formidably defended, not to mention secluded. I tossed a handful of powder in the fire and took a deep breath.  
  
"Albus Dumbledore," I said in a very low voice, the one that my colleagues had often referred to as a growl.  
  
Some minutes later the headmaster's head appeared in the flames.  
  
"Alastor, what can I do for you?" he asked cheerfully enough, and maybe that cheerfulness was what set my temper off again.  
  
"If anyone but you had sent that boy to live with those people, I swear on everything holy I would blast them into tomorrow," I hissed.  
  
"Calm down, Alastor, and explain what has happened. Is Harry all right?" questioned Dumbledore with concern in his eyes. Belated concern, in my opinion.  
  
"No thanks to those idiot muggles. I'm ... I'm in the process of patching him up," I said, rubbing my thumb across the dent in my nose and struggling to put a lid on my flaring temper.  
  
"Good. Should I have Poppy come ..."  
  
"No, I don't think so. I've managed to take care of the bruises. I just have to get his fever down and give him a healing potion for good measure."  
  
"Thank you, Alastor. It means a lot to me that you're taking care of the situation. How long are you willing to look after him?"  
  
"Until school starts, I suppose, though if he could stay with you he might be safer ..." I hinted. There were few places in the wizarding world so safe as that school, especially with Albus Dumbledore there.  
  
"Impossible, I'm afraid," said Dumbledore.  
  
I nodded that I understood, which, of course, I didn't, before asking him, "How could you send him to a place like that, Albus? I have to ask or the question will drive me mad."  
  
"I thought he would be safe there, Alastor, safe from Voldemort and his followers."  
  
"There are other dangers in the world," I reminded him.  
  
"Yes," he conceded.  
  
"I don't know if he would have lived through this summer. He was ill ... and I can tell that no one was looking after the lad," I winced as soon as I had spoken. The hitch in my voice had given me away. I knew what had caused it. The boy in question was the son of my former protégé, my favorite young Auror-in-training and his wife who worked for the Department of Mysteries. Old memories from another time.  
  
"He has someone to look after him now, it seems," said Dumbledore with a muted chuckle in his voice and a twinkle is those blasted blue eyes of his.  
  
I knew what he was saying, what was hidden in those softly spoken words. I had lost my parents, who were both Aurors, to Grindelwald when I was in my final year of school at Hogwarts. Just two months away from entering the training program at the Ministry. Just two months away from joining them in the fight. And my old transfigurations' professor had thought that I had no one to look out for me after that. Luckily, I had not been in his house. The old man would probably have tried to give me lemon drops or some nonsense. Instead he just looked at me, and the other Slytherin orphans in his classes, with quiet, unyielding pity, which was something we got none of from our own head of house.  
  
Albus was saying that I now had a young orphan in my charge. Someone with whom I could easily empathize. And truth be told, he was saying a lot more than that in light of recent events.  
  
"Don't you dare bring my past into this. I closed those books years ago, Albus. This is now. And that boy is not ..."  
  
"Yes?" questioned Dumbledore.  
  
"I lost my parents. But I was lucky. I was old enough to take care of myself. Harry is nothing like I was."  
  
"That was hardly what I meant."  
  
I looked away for a moment and said, "Then you were referring to my ... enforced sabbatical in the trunk." My tone sounded more bitter than I had intended it to, but considering the circumstances, I could hardly be blamed for that. Could I?  
  
"Alastor, through all the years that we have known each other, have I ever given you cause to believe that I am not your friend?"  
  
"Of course not," I said, feeling rush of embarrassment  
  
"Then simply know that I am concerned ... about you and now about Harry. And for this moment, let us leave it at that," said Dumbledore softly.  
  
The old professor had been trying for weeks to get me to talk about what had happened during my captivity. I explained to him quite truthfully that it was all irrelevant. But Albus persisted, very gently and very determinedly, but nevertheless he had been quite persistent. I had come very close to telling my longtime friend and former professor that I was much too old to need someone to hold my hand. Only my profound respect for Dumbledore as a wizard had made me hold my notoriously sharp tongue.  
  
"I will owl the Weasleys that Harry is with you," said Dumbledore after an uncomfortable pause. We were both strong-willed old men, and nothing could be done about that.  
  
"You won't tell them where I am, will you? Arthur and Molly are good people, have helped me out on more than one occasion, but loose lips sink ships and there are a lot of lips in that family," I said anxiously.  
  
"I won't tell them, but they will want to see Harry," warned Dumbledore.  
  
"I'll see what I can do."  
  
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A/N: With any luck I'll have another chapter up before I go on vacation.  
  
  
jasmine Black: I've never read a story with Moody as the main character either. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Lady FoxFire: Thank you!  
  
spacecatdet: Just trying something different. Thanks for the review!  
  
Blue Butterfly: Thanks for reviewing!  
  
Mad Ant: Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Bette: It is difficult to explain things that aren't obvious (like why Harry has had such a rough summer) from the first-person perspective I've chosen. Moody, like the readers, has to find things out. Unlike Dumbledore, he isn't quite all-knowing, though I imagine him as being quite intelligent. And I do try to be canon-consistent. I didn't mind the slightly critical review at all (how does anyone improve their writing without some criticism?). Thank you very much for both of your reviews!  
  
kateydidnt: Thanks for reviewing!  
  
Chanzo654: I've read a lot of fics with Snape, Sirius, and/or Remus as the rescuer too. Thank you for the review!  
  
barbarataku: I never said that I needed ideas. (Perhaps more confidence, never ideas.) Almost everyone asks for reviews. Many people request not to be flamed (in a humorous manner or otherwise). I almost never write anything as a WIP (like this is). I usually have the ending either on paper or at least worked out in my head. I hoped by posting this, it would help me to work through a few difficult points and minor writer's block. So far, it's working all right. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Catspook: Thanks for the review!  
  
Minerva of Tortall: *blushes* Thank you!  
  
Redone: The muggle authorities? *blinks* No, I don't think anyone has done that. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
  



	3. Introductions

Chapter Three  
  
Introductions  
  
  
  
A few minutes later after the headmaster had gone, I heard the sound of a quiet voice calling for me from the bath. Potter, of course. I rubbed my face with both hands and left my seat by the fire. How would he feel when he learned that he was staying here for the rest of the summer? I could not imagine that he would be very keen on the idea.  
  
Opening the door slightly, I asked, "Can I come in?"  
  
"Yes." Potter replied.  
  
He was sitting in the tub with his knees drawn up. I reached for a towel on the rack near the door, but then I noticed something. The water in the tub had a slightly pink cast to it. Blood, I thought almost instantly. I felt a definite chill at the very thought. I took the towel from the rack and handed to Harry, who had just taken the stopper out of the tub, letting the water drain out. I averted my eyes as he dried himself off.  
  
"Do you have any injuries that might need looking after?" I asked him.  
  
"My back, sir." he said quietly.  
  
I turned around and walked back to the tub where he continued to sit, but with the towel wrapped neatly around his waist.  
  
"Lean forward, lad." I instructed him.  
  
The shallow gash, which ran from the small of his back to the bottom of his right shoulder blade, was long, jagged, and had not closed neatly. It looked as though it might be infected. I reached to touch it, but thought better of it. This was the source of the blood, and for that I felt mildly relieved. There are worse things than mere flesh wounds.  
  
"Let me fetch something to put on that." I said to him, extracting a mute and perfunctory nod.  
  
There was a bottle of wound-cleaning potion in the medical kit. It was nearly half empty from rather frequent use. I glanced at the warnings on the bottle and swore silently as I read, "_Do not use of injuries that have begun to close or that may be infected._" What was the use of the stuff then? Reading further I noticed that it recommended an antiseptic gel for older wounds, especially those that showed signs of infection. Further rummaging through the kit produced an unopened tube of the suggested substance with which I returned to the bath.  
  
Harry was sitting exactly where and how I had left him. I dragged an old three-legged stool up the basin and sat down behind him, glancing over the instructions for the gel again.  
  
"This might sting a bit." I warned him.  
  
"All right." he said apathetically. The tiredness was back in his voice.  
  
I squeezed a light blue and slightly granular substance from the tube and carefully spread it across the gash on Potter's back. If it caused him any discomfort, I couldn't tell. He was silent and unflinching.   
  
The injury began to close immediately as the gel permeated the wound. I carefully rubbed a little bit more of the mixture into the deepest portion of the mark and felt him stiffen slightly. Suddenly I realized that he was scared. I could feel the wild, uncontrolled magic building up beneath his skin. I slowly removed my hands and held my breath as I waited for him to calm down.  
  
"That should do, lad." I told him as his shoulders relaxed.  
  
"Thank you, sir." he said, looking at me over his shoulder.  
  
"You want to tell me how that happened?" I asked.  
  
"I fell." he said quite simply. I blinked and shook my head in disbelief. Didn't he realize that I had seen the bruises? That I _knew_ something was amiss. "My uncle pushed me, and I fell against the corner of my bed." he clarified.  
  
"I see." I nodded.  
  
He seemed reluctant to talk about any of it. I could hardly blame him. I wanted to know more, of course. I wanted to know what had motivated his uncle to hurt him and to deny him needed medical attention. Simple hatred of wizardry and magic? If that were the case, then Harry probably would have died or been maimed or something in their care years ago. I had suspicions, but I didn't think that Harry would want to confirm or deny them at that particular time.  
  
I grabbed his clothes from the floor, took my wand from my sleeve, and whispered a quiet freshening spell over them to take away the smell of fear, pain, and sweat. I knew that I would need to find him something warmer to wear tomorrow, but that could wait.  
  
I gave him the nightclothes and turned so that he could put them on. When he clambered from the bath tub, I reached out an arm to steady him. He was still quite weak, and I'm sure he knew it.  
  
Potter looked down at the floor and mumbled a very quiet, "Thank you, sir."  
  
"Let's get you back to bed now. And this 'sir' business. We might as well clear that up while we're at it. Alastor ... Moody. And if neither of those are to your liking, I hear that folks call me Mad-Eye." I said with a thin and twisted smile, the best one I could manage.  
  
Potter looked at me for a moment and started to say something, but his knees suddenly buckled. I swept him up in my arms in surprise. He had fainted. I carried him into the main room of the cottage and carefully placed him on the bed. He opened his eyes slightly and started to murmur an apology.  
  
I frowned sternly and said, "Warn a man when you're going to do that, would you, Potter?"  
  
"Harry." he whispered.  
  
"Very good, but either way, say something. Merlin, lad, I'm not going to give you a clout." I said, grabbing a folded blanket from a nearby shelf and draping it over Harry against the slight chill that lingered in the air.  
  
"I ... I will." said Harry.  
  
"Do you think you could eat anything?" I questioned, sitting down on the edge of the bed again.  
  
"I'm afraid ... that I might not be able to hold it down." said Harry.  
  
I considered that statement for a moment and asked, "Do you want to try?"   
  
"Could I have more water instead?"  
  
"Conjured or from the tap?" I asked. The flask was nearly empty. I always conjured water. It was an old habit from the during the war against Grindelwald, though I had only seen the last three years or so of it. "I never drink from the tap myself, so I feel badly asking you to do it, but I imagine that it's what you're accustomed to." I added, looking at the expression on Potter's face.  
  
"If you drink conjured water, then that's what I'll have, if it isn't too much of a bother ..." he began to say.  
  
"None at all, Harry." I said, summoning a glass from the kitchen and filling it for him after close examination. "Slowly." I cautioned as he began to gulp.  
  
"Thanks." he said after draining the glass.  
  
"Never you mind." I said, taking the empty glass from Harry's hand. "I need to give you a healing potion. It might help with the fever, but it will certainly help with the pain. Of course, it will put you right to sleep too." I said, reaching into the nearby medical kit and removing a bottle of healing potion. It was something I had added to the standard kit myself.  
  
"All right." nodded Harry. "But will it be a dreamless sleep?" he asked hesitantly.  
  
"I'm sorry, but, no, it will just be an ordinary one. I use a very strong healing potion, and the two draughts don't always mix so well." I explained, shaking the excess water from the glass and pouring a crystalline pink fluid into it.  
  
As I watched Harry drink it without question, I couldn't bring myself to lecture on constant vigilance. Harry was trusting me out of necessity. I didn't want to undermine that trust with hash words.  
  
"Um, Alastor, I heard you talking to someone while I was in the bath."  
  
"Headmaster Dumbledore."  
  
"Did you tell him ... about what happened to me?" asked Harry, lowering his eyes.  
  
"It was my duty to inform him of your condition."  
  
"I just ... I just don't want people to know ..." he said, beginning to sound sleepy.  
  
"You can trust Albus to be discrete, Harry." I said, feeling a twinge of commiseration.   
  
I had wanted as few people as possible to know about my recent confinement. Dumbledore had tried to make that happen, though word reached the Ministry and some of my former colleagues as well. It was becoming rather widely known, despite Dumbledore's efforts.   
  
"Disgraceful," I thought to myself, "an ex-Auror locked in his own trunk under the Imperious Curse." People would talk about that for years to come, and I could hardly blame them.  
  
"Alastor ... I think they killed my owl. I think ... they may have killed Hedwig." he told me slowly as grogginess thickened his words even as his eyes closed.  
  
"Poor lad." I whispered, shuddering at the thought of his familiar being killed as I tucked the blanket closer around Harry and brushed his dark hair away from his forehead. I removed his glasses and set them on the table for him.  
  
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A/N: I'm going on vacation at the end of the week and won't be near a computer *twitch* until mid-May. So the next update may be a little ... slow. My apologies.  
  
  
kateydidnt: I wanted to try something a little different. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
isaac-p: Thank you for the review!  
  
Elisha: Thanks for reviewing!  
  
Ariel: Yay! Another Moody fan! I think about his past a lot. Very interesting subject since only a little real background information is given about him in GoF. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Jasmine Black: Thanks for the review! (Sorry about your story that was removed! I was really enjoying it.)  
  
summersun: Thank you!  
  
chanzo654: I really wish that I had a sense of humor (that translates into a written form), because I see what you mean about the potential for humor with Moody's eye and all. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Lady FoxFire: Not just anyone can write about that sort of abuse in a realistic/sensitive fashion. I don't think that I can (one of my many failings as a writer). I will attempt to be more informative when I update. Thanks for reviewing!  
  
Michelle: I have never read "Heidi". Somehow I missed out on most of the 'classics' in school. Thanks for the review!  
  
  



	4. Nightmares and bad dreams

Chapter Four  
  
Nightmares and bad dreams  
  
  
  
I pulled up a chair to sleep in next to the bed as it was already late evening and my strength was beginning to wane. Vigilance must be constant, not unending and unsleeping, though how desperately I wished it could be! I did not want to leave Harry alone during the night, but I needed at least two or three hours of shut-eye myself. I was still very much on the mend, according to Madam Pomfrey, and needed more rest than was normal for me, which meant at least six hours. I had known a time when I could live almost happily on four hours so long as there was work to be done.  
  
"Those days are coming again," I reminded myself grimly as I closed my eyes. I could only hope that I was still equal to the task.  
  
Maybe some people thought that I had already been found wanting. But at least Albus Dumbledore wasn't one of them. He still trusted me.  
  
"Get locked in your own trunk and there goes your reputation," I grumbled to myself, shifting in the chair.  
  
And what a terrible experience that had been! The Imperious curse ... maybe that was the worst of it. Being helpless and powerless, under the control of another. It was not a new experience. I had endured such as part of my Auror training, but that had been different ... acceptable and expected. I knew my instructors very well and had trusted them, but that had been many long years ago. This time a single night's lapse in vigilance was paid for over and over again in torture under the curse.   
  
I shuddered and tried to sleep, but it never seemed to come easily to me anymore.  
  
The bad dreams were always the same. I refused to call them nightmares. Retired Aurors didn't have those. We had dreams about work, which usually involved reliving our less than finer moments on the job, and we had bad dreams, which for most of us, and I was certainly no exception, were about the darkest hours of our lives, work related or not.   
  
Before the previous year, I would have said that the worst of my bad dreams were about the wars, the one against Grindelwald as a young man and the one against Voldemort as an Auror supposedly in my prime. Terrible days those had been. Wars dragged on so long and times of peace seemed so short by comparison. But I hardly ever dreamed about the battlefields in France, the lifeless wizarding villages, and the loss of so many of my classmates nor about the explosions in London, the Dark Mark hanging eerily in the sky, or the nameless dread that stalked everyone I knew. These days I dreamed of a storeroom sometimes used as a holding cell in my own magical trunk ...  
  
  
_The quiet, yet malevolent sound of shears. Cold, almost icy against my skin. Colder than the floor of the trunk beneath me. Metallic. The touch of the scissors. Close to my scalp. Right behind my ear. Like a knife blade. I couldn't open my eyes. My captor would not allow it. Laughter, soft and evil, filled my ears. The scissors were nipping at my ragged nightshirt. I could not move, could not shrink away, could not struggle. The sharp point of one blade ran down my spine. Wicked cackling. Amusement? Was this entertaining him somehow? The pain made my senses clearer. The fog dissipated. My captor knew that. He wanted me to be aware.  
  
"So this is what a legendary Auror looks like ..."  
  
Those words were drawled over and over again. Hissing in to my ear. Warm breath. A voice that could change to sound like my own, mimicking me. Sometimes I thought it was my own growling voice, mocking me. A thumb lifted the lid of my good eye. I could not see anything. Blurry shapes. Shadows. A mirror. A horrible clouded mirror. A reflection.  
  
"So this is what a legendary Auror looks like ..."  
  
Frozen. Unable to look away. Unable to cry out. Derisive laughter rang in my ears. It was loud against the almost perpetual silence of the room. My eyelid closed again. Darkness. Equally a blessing and a curse. A heavy foot prodded my ribs. I could not steel myself against the kick. The pain was not particularly bad. I had known worse. The fear and helplessness were terrible. It shamed me like no other experience could.  
  
Then the cold and silence returned. The cold was worse than before. I could not shiver. I could only lie in the darkness. Sometimes I thought I heard the echo of a voice.  
  
"So this what a ..."_  
  
  
I awoke with a start. A few careful glances around the room assured me that I was somewhere safe and the horrible feeling of dread and panic began to wear off gradually. I shivered slightly. The cottage was chilly. The fire in the hearth had burned low while I slept. I rubbed my face and tried to shake off the dream. Little by little it was getting easier. Maybe someday I would be able to awaken from one and not give it a single thought. I just didn't know when that day would come, or if it ever truly would.  
  
I rose quietly from my seat and stretched a little. It was dark outside. I could steal a few more hours of sleep if I wanted them. I just wasn't sure that I did. Treading silently across the room, I walked into the bath and to the sink. I splashed some cool water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror.  
  
I smiled at my reflection. A face to scare small, muggle children with smiled back at me. And to think there was a time when I had been considered rather handsome. Never the best looking young wizard at Hogwarts, but I had never gone to a dance alone or with someone unattractive or unintelligent. I had been nice looking enough to have choices.  
  
Now I was battle-scarred beyond hope of repair. I touched my face, tracing one of the most noticeable scars. It had not all happened at once. I had come out of the Grindelwald war all but unscathed. A thin line here or there caused by physical scuffles with my foes. Nothing that I could not conceal if I had so desired. Then I lost my leg during the days of Voldemort. Then the eye. And lastly the chunk of my nose. The scars had accumulated more slowly. I wasn't even certain when I had crossed over the dividing line between handsome and horrible. And most of the time, I truly didn't care.  
  
I splashed a little more water on my face and returned to the main room of the cottage without looking in the mirror again. I hated looking into the damn thing anyway.  
  
I shook my head when I noticed that Harry had tossed and turned enough in his sleep to throw off the blanket. I picked it up from where it had landed in a heap in the floor and tucked it around him again. He murmured something in his sleep.  
  
"Poor lad." I whispered, lightly touching his scarred forehead. Both of us were scarred, but it occurred to me then, as I sat down on the edge of the bed, that his scars ran deeper than mine.  
  
Harry trembled beneath the covers and mumbled something in his sleep. I held my breath for a moment and strained to hear.  
  
"Cedric ... no."  
  
I sighed softly. It was a difficult burden for him to bear, I imagined, knowing that one of his classmates was dead, just because Voldemort had wanted Harry. I had been thoroughly apprised of the situation. Albus had told me everything. And I was just one more Phoenix to shake his head at the woes of young Harry Potter. Watching the boy tremble in his sleep brought it home. Harry had gone through so much that year. The stress of the tournament, for which he had never truly signed up, and the finale in which Cedric Diggory was killed, must have been overwhelming for a mere fourteen-year-old wizard. And then he was sent into a den of wolves where he received neither peace nor comfort from his so-called family. I found it unbelievably sad.  
  
He mumbled a few more barely distinguishable words to which I merely replied, "It's all right, Harry."   
  
The boy moved closer to me in his sleep, curling up on his side in the process. He seemed to be having something of a nightmare, which was growing more intense. I hesitated. I was aware that when Harry was awake that he preferred not be touched and even flinched away at the simplest gesture, possibly because his muggle relatives had treated him so harshly. But then I remembered gentle hands, those of my former transfigurations' professor, tucking a cloak about me as I lay still under the Imperious curse in my own trunk at the end of that ordeal. I had known then, without being able to open my eyes or respond, that Dumbledore's intentions had been good.   
  
Comfort, I mused, when all the world had become hopelessness, darkness, and pain. I wanted to be able to comfort Harry as I had been comforted then.  
  
Harry shuddered beneath the blanket again and muttered something about Cedric again. I sighed softly as I cautiously and rather awkwardly gathered Harry's thin frame, blanket and all, into my arms. It had been many long years since I had held a child like this, and then it was a three-year-old boy crying for his parents who had been attacked by Dark Wizards. Frank and Helen Longbottom's young son. And here was the son of another young Auror and his wife. Why, I wondered, did those of us who were childless, without such responsibility, survive while those who were needed were either driven to madness or killed? The only answer I could come up with revolved around the fate's cruelty, and I hoped that was not the answer.  
  
Harry shifted slightly as I held him. By my estimation he was growing calmer. He seemed much younger than fourteen. I had never spent very much time with young people. Maybe I was a poor judge, but Harry, because of how skinny he was, looked to be about the age of the youngest students at Hogwarts.   
  
The first time I had ever seen his parents, they had still been in school. That was during the worst years of Voldemort's reign. I had spent some time at the school then, which was why Albus had offered - using that word very loosely - the Defense Against the Dark Arts job to me.  
  
A soft sound escaped Harry's lips. I hushed him as well as I could, brushing his messy dark hair from his forehead again. I considered trying to wake him to end his nightmares. Certainly it would be better for him if he could sleep in peace, but I did not think he could have that without a dreamless sleep potion.  
  
"Hush now, lad. Don't you be having bad dreams about things you could help," I said awkwardly and in low voice.  
  
But the second after I had spoken, I realized that my voice had been just loud enough to awaken Harry. I felt him stiffen, which was followed by the sensation of wild magic building up under his skin. He was obviously very afraid or disoriented.  
  
"It's all ri..." I began to say, but the next thing I knew, I was being jerked upward by a strong magical force. The air around me was suddenly alive, practically crackling with fear-induced wandless magic.  
  
I was slammed against the ceiling of the cottage before I could react and then thrown across the room and into the far wall. I managed to roll as I hit the floor. All of that training was not for nothing. My head was spinning, and when I blinked dazedly, I realized that my magical eye had popped out. The room was growing darker around me, but not before I heard the sound of stifled sobbing.  
  
"Alastor? Mister Moody?" someone questioned in an anguished, tear-filled voice.  
  
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A/N: Yes, I know that being under the Imperious Curse is not like in the dream sequence in this chapter. When Alastor is dreaming, he isn't actually under the curse, so his normal emotions color what he remembers/ experiences in the dream. I hope that made sense.  
  
  
kateydidnt: *winces* I'm a bit late. Sorry about that. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
jasmine black: Thank you!  
  
Chanzo654: Thanks for reviewing!  
  
Ariel: Well, if they can re-grow bones, then what's a little scrape? *grins* I'm glad you liked that. Thank you for the review!  
  
Lady Cinnibar: Owls are cool. I wish they made good pets. That would be the coolest. Thanks for the review!  
  
A Class Superior: I know, I know. I got stuck writing an extra chapter for another story. Thanks for reviewing!  
  
NightSpear: Moody is definitely under-used. Don't people realize how interesting ... Nevermind. I suppose they don't. I haven't forgotten about this story (torments me day and night). Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Jordan: The jury is still out on that, I'm afraid. Thanks for the review!  
  
  



	5. Memory

Chapter Five  
  
Memory  
  
  
  
It was a warm and beautiful day in the spring of 1978 at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was among the first Aurors sent in to protect the school from potential attack by Voldemort and his followers. The Dark Lord was becoming even bolder, and the previous term had included attacks on Hogsmeade and on the families of many of the muggle-born students. This year was proving to be just as terrible, but both Dumbledore and the Minister of Magic were determined to keep the students safe while they could. The headmaster, I was told, had requested me by name. I couldn't quite decide if it was because of my reputation or because he remembered me from the Grindelwald era conflict and as a student.  
  
My first duty at the school, one that I took upon myself with relish, was to test the wards that surrounded the castle and its grounds. Most of my colleagues were setting up dark detectors while I made my way out to the perimeter. Testing wards was a relatively simple procedure that I had performed many times, but never at a place with wards so complex and intricate as Hogwarts. It would have helped if I had realized just how sophisticated and how strong they were before I drew my wand and started the testing.  
  
As I had begun the procedure there was a sudden and unexpected crackling, followed by an intense burning sensation that swept through my wand arm and the rest of my body, enveloping me like an unquenchable fire. I had cried out without realizing it at the time. But then the burning had stopped and I found myself lying on the ground. The scent of smoke, singed flesh, and strong magic filled my nostrils. The pain was mind-numbing.  
  
Then an unfamiliar face appeared above me.  
  
"Are you all right, Mister Moody?" asked the stranger, whom I recognized as a professor whose name I could not remember from the introductions that morning. He was very young, perhaps twenty-five years old and spoke with a slight accent. There was a look of concern on his sun-browned face. His dark hair, which was shorter than that of most wizards, framed his face rather neatly.  
  
"I was testing the wards," I told him, shuddering with a sudden spasm of pain. My voice sounded different, more throaty and growl-like than usual. I touched my throat gingerly with my uninjured hand. I found it suddenly quite painful to speak.  
  
"Testing the wards? You should _never_ do that! It is dangerous. Didn't anyone warn you?" he asked.  
  
"Part of the job," I muttered with a soft, involuntary cough. There was the sudden taste of something warm, metallic, and very unpleasant in my mouth. Blood?  
  
"Are you hurt?" he asked me.  
  
"Who are you?" I questioned, suddenly becoming suspicious as the younger wizard knelt on the grass and began examining me with steady and cautiously probing hands. I wasn't aware until then that my robes were smoldering slightly.  
  
"Anastasio Sinistra. I'm the astronomy professor," he replied with a friendly, but worried smile. "Mister Moody, you have been severely burned. I am going to conjure a stretcher and take you to the hospital wing," Anastasio told me in a firm voice. The expression on his angular face was an anxious one. The smile had faded, but I didn't know why.  
  
I flexed the fingertips of my wand hand and felt a jolt of intense pain. But even then, I also noticed that my wand was gone. It wasn't in my hand anymore. I had lost it.  
  
"My wand ..." I said, feeling a rising sensation of extreme panic. What was an Auror without his wand? What was a knight without his sword?  
  
"I have it," Anastasio assured me before lifting me off the ground with a simple spell and onto the stretcher he had conjured.  
  
I had been surprised. My own astronomy professor from my school days had been the next best thing to a squib, hardly better than a muggle at _real_ magic, though an expert in his own only slightly magical field. This Professor Sinistra seemed to be at least competent.  
  
I had stared up at Anastasio for the duration of our journey. His face was stony and difficult to read. My stomach had lurched when it occurred to me that perhaps I wasn't being taken to the hospital wing after all, but rather to a waiting band of Dark Wizards who had somehow orchestrated the incident. I struggled to leave the stretcher, to get away.  
  
Anastasio had halted and gripped me firmly by the shoulders, pushing me down and hushing me almost automatically in an unfamiliar language. I didn't have the strength to fight back. The agonizing pain in my hand and arm was the worst I had ever known. It was worse than the Cruciatus curse. I couldn't fight the pain. A year or so later when I had lost my leg or even my eye, the pain had not been nearly so intense.  
  
"I do not wish to stun you, but you _must_ be still," he said in English. His tone was cold and clear. There could be no argument.  
  
I had no choice but to give up and close my eyes. The stretcher started moving again, toward the castle and then through its cool and shadowy halls. But I wasn't sure what was happening.  
  
Then there was something soft beneath me. I had left the stretcher and wasn't moving anymore. I opened my eyes to find myself in the rear ward of hospital wing, safe and sound, but still experiencing some confusion and very much in pain.  
  
"Madam! Madam Pomfrey!" yelled the accented voice of the man who had brought me to the infirmary.  
  
"Get those robes and his shirt off while I contact Professor Krohn. We are going to need strong stuff to save that hand," I heard Poppy Pomfrey say in her unmistakable, firm, no-nonsense tones.  
  
I think I had blacked out for a moment. The sound of a privacy screen being drawn snapped me out of it.  
  
"_Sustollo vestitus_!" said Sinistra in a commanding tone.  
  
I cried out sharply in pain as my robes and other outer clothing were magically removed. I had not fully realized how severely my left hand and arm had been burned until the fabric of my shirt and robes had been torn away from them. The spell, one used in magical emergencies usually involving burns or serious potions' spills, was not an especially gentle one.  
  
"Mister Moody, you are going to be all right," a stubborn voice assured me. It was the young professor. "Madam Pomfrey left something for your burns. It won't help your poor hand, I dare say, but the rest of you could do with some of it."  
  
"My hand?" I mumbled, spots dancing before my eyes.  
  
"Your hand needs a regeneration cream. We can only hope that the potions' master has some readily available," said Anastasio grimly.  
  
I turned my head slightly to look at my hand. It was blackened, almost shriveled, from the tips of the fingers almost to the elbow. It was a gruesome sight, but I no longer wondered why it hurt. Seeing the injury did make my heart pound slightly. If I lost my wand arm, how could I do my job as an Auror effectively? That was my first thought, my first consideration, but it was followed by many others.  
  
Then something cold and rather slimy touched my chest and shoulder, which were only mildly scorched by comparison. I flinched and turned my head again. Anastasio was applying the burn remedy. His hands, I noticed, were very steady and firm. The young wizard had a strong stomach. Looking into his light brown, almost hazel eyes, I also knew by the dispassionate, penetrating gaze that I was looking into the eyes of a fellow Slytherin.  
  
"You were very lucky, Mister Moody. Another moment or so and there would have been naught but a pile of ashes left of you," said Anastasio, looking me steadily in the eye as he massaged the burn remedy into my skin. "Be still," Anastasio cautioned me as I involuntarily flinched away from him. "You've been half cooked by that foolish, ill-conceived stunt. You would be well advised to try and remain still and conscious until Madam Pomfrey returns."  
  
The left side of my face was burned, I realized, as he turned my head and rubbed some of the cool, reddish colored potion into neck and jaw. I knew nothing about this young wizard before he brought me into the hospital wing, but his stern, but kind words and unflinching actions told me more about him by the minute. I wished much later that I had been in a better position to appreciate it.  
  
When he had finished applying the potion, he summoned a towel for his hands and wiped them carefully. I watched his eyes dart anxiously from the privacy screen to my injured hand. The pain was beginning to fade as the nerves in my hand and lower arm began to die, to cease functioning, from the horrific injury. I started to close my eyes.  
  
"No, no, no ..." Anastasio said, his voice betraying him for a moment. He was afraid ... on my behalf. I was both touched and shamed. "Open your eyes," he instructed me. I don't know where I found the will to do so, but I did. Anastasio lifted my uninjured hand and squeezed firmly. "Just a few more minutes. Then you may rest," he said in a determined tone of voice.  
  
"Hurts," I growled nonsensically. Of course it hurt, and the young professor understood that. It didn't prevent me from saying it nevertheless.  
  
"I can't give you anything right now. When Madam Pomfrey returns, she can give you something," he assured me.  
  
I could feel myself being drawn in to the darkness again and grasped his hand as something to focus on. Anastasio realized what I was doing and ran his thumb across my knuckles.  
  
"Yes, just try to hold out a bit longer," he whispered almost desperately.  
  
Then I realized that I could hear footsteps in the outer portion of the hospital wing beyond the privacy screen. I turned my head just in time to see Poppy Pomfrey and Professor Krohn pull back the screen. It felt as though my stomach dropped several inches when I saw the face of my former head of house, who had aged a good fifty years since my school days. His blond hair was streaked with white and pulled out of his eyes neatly with a silver and green ribbon. He regarded me sourly as he looked down at me with a clay pot clutched carefully in his hands.  
  
"Alastor Moody. Why does this not surprise me?" he asked rhetorically. His hawk-like eyes drifted to my hand. An expression of revulsion and mild horror coated his heavy, once handsome features for a moment. "That may be beyond saving," he told Poppy.  
  
"Nevertheless, we owe it to him to try," said the mediwitch, taking the vessel from his hands.  
  
"Of course," agreed Krohn, turning his attention to his young colleague and presumably former student. "Sinistra, keep him from moving about while we do this," he ordered sharply.  
  
"Yes, sir," Anastasio answered, placing his free hand on my shoulder.   
  
I turned toward him, not desiring to watch the potions' master and the mediwitch at work. Anastasio managed what I considered a very supportive smile. I wanted to ask him why he was doing this, investing so much time and in energy to help a complete stranger. But at the moment something very hot and disagreeable touched my wounded, half numb hand, and I blacked out.  
  
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A/N: I was not my intention for the last chapters to be so comparitively short, but they have ended where they ended (or where it seemed logical for them to). I'm sure someone is going to ask: is this slash? Um, not especially. (Then why is Sinistra a man?) Because whenever I picture that scene from GoF, I picture Sinistra as a wizard. *shrugs* For the record, I tried to write Sinistra as a witch. The results weren't encouraging. And if anyone recognizes Professor Krohn from my other stories, simply know that I didn't want to invent another potions' master. This one amuses me. And the flashback/memories won't be terribly prevasive, but there might be more of them. I like telling multiple stories. Thank you.  
  
  
Jordan: Er ... you might have to wait on that question. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Lady Cinnibar: As far as why Harry could toss Moody scross the room ... extenuating circumstances: 1) Moody was caught off-guard, 2) He was also not at his best (trunk, fatigue), and 3) Wandless magic does unpredictable things. Your owl story was really cool. I don't think I've ever seen a live one before (maybe at the zoo). Thanks for reviewing!  
  
NightSpear: Does anyone expect less from Harry? Thank you for the review!  
  
Minerva of Tortall: *blushes* You're hardly a lesser mortal. Thanks for reviewing!  
  
Jasmine Black: Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Silver Angel: And Moody's so interesting! *sighs* Thanks for the review!  
  
Alexial: Thank you!  
  
A Class Superior: I guess (Harry being so young and all) that I believe he can't always be the hero. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Von: Thanks for the review!  
  
juggling stars: Well, I sort of had to leave the last chapter there (this one too). Thank you for reviewing!  
  
  



	6. Just another incident

Chapter Six  
  
Just another incident  
  
  
  
Something damp touched my face. I wasn't quite certain what it was. But I did know that it wasn't 1978 and that my left arm wasn't the only thing that hurt. I moved slightly and a groan escaped my lips. Nothing felt broken, but everything felt bruised and battered. Shaking fingers touched my throat. Anastasio's hands seldom shook. He was always so confident, and his movements matched that confidence. So I was almost certain that it wasn't him. It occurred to me at that moment that I had probably hit my head on something very hard. The floor perhaps? Then I remembered being thrown across the room, and young Harry Potter, who could probably be found checking my pulse.  
  
"Don't be dead. Please, don't be dead," I heard the young wizard whisper fervently.  
  
"Anastasio?" I questioned ridiculously as I was gently rolled onto my back. My ears seemed to be ringing a bit too.  
  
"No, it's Harry," he said, straightening my clothes and sniffling. I thought he was crying. Then I opened my good eye and knew it. "I'm ... I didn't mean to. I swear," he said, wiping his eyes on the sleeve on his pajamas.  
  
I had a fair idea of what had happened, though my head was spinning. Harry had reacted out of blind instinct. No thought; no malice.  
  
"It's all right," I said automatically. "Constant vigilance," I murmured almost approvingly. The young man had the reflexes of an Auror in the making. I couldn't say whether this was necessarily a good or bad thing at the moment as I was still somewhat stunned by the experience.  
  
"Your eye ..." Harry began to tell me.  
  
"Don't fuss, lad," I mumbled, reaching for my magical eye. I popped back in without a second thought. The world came into focus far better looking through it.  
  
Harry shook me by the shoulder. I knew I probably had a dazed look on my face. I still felt still disoriented as I sat up, looking at my slightly askew wooden appendage. Harry slipped an arm behind me with a worried look as I began to adjust it. I wanted to tell him not to fuss again, but my head was still swimming. And whatever might have happened to Harry, he was still a good lad, in my opinion. I could tell that by looking at the guilt and tears in his green eyes.  
  
"Alastor?" Harry questioned uncertainly, tightening his grip on my shoulder.  
  
"I'm fine. Just a touch shaken up. That was quite a trick. Ever do that to your muggle relatives?" I questioned lightly, pushing my own jumbled thoughts aside for the moment.  
  
"No, not exactly ... I didn't mean to ..."  
  
"Extenuating circumstances. I understand perfectly," I nodded reassuringly.  
  
"Thank you," said Harry quietly.  
  
"There now, lad, no harm done," I told him, climbing not so gracefully to my feet. I was dizzy, but I surely didn't want Harry to see that. The pained look on his face was too much as it was. "Back to bed now. You shouldn't be up and about yet," I told him as he stood up shakily.  
  
I, after sitting down in my chair and wincing slightly, could see the anxiety in Harry's eyes as he climbed back into bed. I could guess what he was thinking about.  
  
"Don't do this to yourself, lad. There are many, many things in this world beyond your control," I said in a quiet voice.  
  
"You know about Cedric and the tournament then?"  
  
"Of course, and I know that you can't be blamed for anything that happened, including that young man's untimely death. Professor Dumbledore has informed me of everything I missed during my ... my absence," I told him, glancing away uncomfortably at the mention of my rather unpleasant term.  
  
"It means a lot to hear you say that. I don't think you would lie to me, but, Alastor, you weren't there. You didn't see Cedric die," whispered Harry.  
  
For an instant his words felt like a knife wound, and I found myself unable to look the young man in the eye.  
  
"There's no use denying that. I wasn't there," I agreed quietly.  
  
"That wasn't what I meant," he stammered. "I would never say anything like _that_."  
  
"I know, lad. Calm down. And believe me what I tell you that what happened at the tournament wasn't your fault, Harry."  
  
"I'll try."  
  
"That's better."  
  
After a pause Harry took a deep breath and asked me, "Do you remember very much about your ... your time ... that you were in that trunk?"  
  
I didn't want to answer his question. Of course, it was only natural that he should be curious. I looked up and searched his eyes. There was curiosity in them, and perhaps pity, which was far worse.  
  
I regarded him carefully before I answered, "I remember enough of it."  
  
"I don't want to pry, but ..."  
  
"Of course not, Harry, I understand that," I said with a slight nod.  
  
Harry dropped his gaze, looking down awkwardly at his worn pajamas, and I frowned.  
  
"Albus would just love this," I thought unpleasantly as I moved stiffly from the chair to the bed so that I could sit by Harry. The old wizard would be very pleased that I had finally found someone to whom I could not easily give gruff or flippant answers.  
  
"Harry, you can ask me anything. I don't take offense very easily if that's what you're worried about," I told him. "Besides," I added, "I'll be asking you some questions soon enough."  
  
"What was it like?" asked Harry, finding the nerve to look me in the eye again.  
  
"Dark and cold mostly. Not very comfortable," I answered.  
  
"I was there when the headmaster opened the trunk. I saw you then. I'm sorry. I just wanted to know ..." Harry said quietly. "Well, you see, I never suspected the impostor ... I mean, I had never met you and ... What I mean to say is ... I know what it's like to be locked in, to be a prisoner, to be alone and ... all of that, but, then, I don't know either because I always had hope of escape and my ... captors were only muggles."  
  
I looked at Harry for a moment and managed a smile. His candor, though blunted with a certain youthful hesitance, was very endearing, and his observation about both us was a keen one.  
  
"I suppose you understand well enough for one of your years. We have some common ground, you and I," I said, squeezing his shoulder gently. For some reason Harry didn't flinch away from me this time. But still, I wondered about something.  
  
"Perhaps we do," he agreed.  
  
"Now it's my turn to pose a question," I said. Harry nodded that I could. "Did any of your relatives ever touch you in a way that was inappropriate?" I asked him hesitantly.  
  
"No, it was never like that. And Uncle Vernon only hit me when things weren't going so well at work or if he had had too much to drink. Dudley, my cousin, had a bad year at his school because all the other kids hate him, so he pushed me around more than usual. Knocked me down the stairs once. But, no, it never went farther than that sort of thing," replied Harry, obviously aware of the hidden depth in my question. "Not that you should feel sorry for me," he added quickly. "I don't need anyone's pity."  
  
"Of course not, lad. We're in the same boat there. But you do need ... sympathy, perhaps, and understanding. You're too young to do without them."  
  
Harry looked at me rather curiously and said, "I don't think it's possible for someone to outgrow the need for understanding."  
  
"You sound like Albus when you say that," I chuckled. "But some of us, as we have gotten older, have found it necessary to do without that sort of thing, to be more ... more self-reliant than most people. In my case because of my work," I explained.  
  
There was this look in his eyes at that moment that looked very much like the one James Potter used to get when looking at an injured colleague. Not pitying by any means, but softer than was the norm for someone in our profession. And I could see a bit of Lily in that gaze too.  
  
"But ..." Harry started say, obviously wanting to argue with me.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It shouldn't have to be that way," he said, cautiously laying a hand on my arm.  
  
I watched him tense as he made the simple, rather sweet gesture.  
  
"He still has the heart of a child. And he expects a clout for it," I thought. I patted Harry's hand and smiled, wondering how such pluck and almost untainted innocence could exist in a boy who had had such a bad time of it. "Harry, you're a good lad," I managed, wanting to say much more, but my throat had tightened so that I could barely get the words out.  
  
"Thank you," said Harry quietly.  
  
"I think it's about time that you get some food in you. In my opinion you look like you haven't been eating right, and I intend to fix that," I said before Harry could say anything else on the subject.  
  
I was very uncomfortable talking about what had happened and knew exactly why. The boy was doing precisely what Dumbledore himself had attempted to do and succeeding where the headmaster had met with very limited success. He was forcing me to talk about the _incident_,which is how I always characterized the matter. The word provided me with a certain professional detachment. What had transpired was merely an event to be listed as a footnote on the log sheet of a very competent and capable Auror who had filled many a cell in Azkaban prison. It was not fodder for the mindless ramblings of a crippled old man who was long past his prime and hardly useful to anyone, least of all himself.  
  
But there was something special about Harry that made him easier to talk to. I would never have thought it true, but I admitted that he had an air about him not unlike Albus Dumbledore's, though he was still too young to be considered a powerful wizard. It was almost mystifying considering the abusive circumstances from which I had removed Harry. I would have thought that such treatment would dim that light, that aura of both potential and compassion that I had noticed around the boy as he struggled to reach out.  
  
"Alastor?" he questioned, reclining and yawning softly as I left the bed. "Am I going to be allowed to stay here with you this summer? Or ... is this just temporary?"  
  
I turned quickly and looked at Harry incredulously. I was bowled over by what he had just said. Or what I thought he was saying.  
  
"Do you want to stay?" I inquired carefully.  
  
"If ... If you would let me. I feel ... please, don't be angry ..."  
  
"I won't," I promised, watching a pleading and fearful look come into his eyes.  
  
"I feel safe here."  
  
"Even after the incident earlier?"  
  
"You didn't even yell at me for it or anything," said Harry with a nod and look of disbelief that could not be concealed.  
  
"Because it was an _accident_. Because you're _ill_, Harry," I said patiently, hoping that he would understand and listen to me when I told him that.  
  
"You see, that's why I feel safe here ... with you," he said with a slightly trembling smile.  
  
"Then I suppose it would be perfectly fine for you spend the rest of the summer here," I said, feeling rather amazed. I had never imagined that he would want to stay.  
  
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A/N: The writing isn't going very well, which is why this is being updated so slowly. That, and the fact that ff.net goes down whenever I want to upload.  
  
  
Von: The reason that the entire previous chapter was a flashback is because when I read stories, I don't really like it when authors skip around through time. Just personal preference. I never realized other people liked it the other way (a mix of both). I think I answered most of your questions within the chapter. I found your review to be very helpful. Thank you!  
  
Silver Angel: Character pasts (especially the mysterious ones) really interest me. Thank you for reviewing!  
  
juggling stars: I tried to keep the disgustingness to a minimum, but ... that's how it goes. And severe burns generally are very gross. Thanks for the review!  
  
NightSpear: Okay, back to the present. Thanks for reviewing!  
  
Jasmine Black: Thank you for the review!  
  
Cataclysmic: Thank you!  
  
A-Class Sarah: Thank you for reviewing!  
  
Lady FoxFire: I'm glad you're enjoying the story. I imagine it is tough to find since Moody isn't available on the character list. Thank you for the reviews!  
  
Relle: I like longer chapters better too, but ... I'm having trouble writing them. Thanks for reviewing!  
  
  



	7. Familiars

Chapter Seven  
  
Familiars  
  
  
  
I did not know what to make of Harry's declaration. I could understand his desperate need for safety and comfort after the harrowing year he had had. I knew, though I would not willingly admit it to anyone, exactly what it was like to revel in feeling secure again. When the Imperious curse had first been removed and I had realized that I was at Hogwarts and that it was all over, I had felt just that way, but I had masked those feelings with a weathered smile and tried not to let on. Albus, I felt certain, knew, but certainly no one else.  
  
I tried not to look at Harry as I made some porridge, carefully sniffing some of the ingredients, wondering vaguely if it were possible that someone could have been in my cabinets while I was away, if someone could have gotten past the wards in my absence. I finally decided that everything in the cupboards seemed to be where I had left it.  
  
The amount of trust Harry was beginning to place in me was rather startling, not to mention disconcerting. Since before the first days of Voldemort, many had been suspicious of wizards and witches who wore the robes of an Auror. Some said that we were a merciless and cruel lot, hardly better than Dark Wizards ourselves. My parents, who had been both Aurors and _very_ good ones, had taught me all about that, about the suspicion and mild intolerance. But then Harry had had no one to teach him the small prejudices of the wizarding world, not unlike Italian-born Anastasio.  
  
"Alastor? Alastor? I think the porridge is burning," a voice alerted me, snapping me out of my rather uncharacteristic reverie, if brooding over the ways of the magical community could be called that.  
  
I shook my head and quickly removed the pot from the magical range, which wasn't supposed to do that, to allow things to burn. I gave the antiquated stove a menacing look and poured up a bowl of the stuff for Harry, silently cursing my own inattentiveness all the while.  
  
"It isn't burned, just a bit ... well done for porridge," I said, taking a spoon from one of the drawers in the little kitchenette and examining it closely before putting it in the bowl.  
  
"What if I can't hold it down?" questioned Harry, letting on for the first time that morning that he still felt sick.  
  
"Then I'll make a broth or something lighter. And if you can't manage that, then I have a potion that might help, but it is exceedingly nasty. I suggest you do your best with this," I said as Harry sat up in bed.  
  
"Aren't you going to have anything?" Harry asked as I passed him the bowl.  
  
"Maybe later," I growled in response. For some reason I just wasn't hungry. Maybe it was the headache I had from the earlier incident. Not to mention the ribs ... No matter. I would rifle through the medical kit again after Harry had eaten.  
  
"How are you feeling?" I asked him cautiously, noting the Harry seemed to be avoiding looking at me, not that I could blame him so much.  
  
"Better."  
  
"Albus told me last night that he plans to send a message to the Weasleys. If you feel well enough soon, perhaps there might be a way that you could see them."  
  
"I could owl them ..." Harry began to say. There was a soft clatter as his spoon slipped from his fingers.  
  
I felt a chill as I looked into Harry's eyes. They were suddenly haunted and half vacant. I took the nearly empty bowl from his hands and set it aside.  
  
"Laddie, you're scaring an old man," I said uncertainly, not knowing what was wrong with him. I cautiously felt his forehead for a fever, but he wasn't overly warm anymore.  
  
"Hedwig," he said.  
  
I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the last thing Harry had said before falling asleep: "Alastor ... I think they killed my owl. I think ... they may have killed Hedwig."  
  
"I'm so sorry," I said, mentally berating myself for my momentary insensitivity. "Tell me what happened," I suggested gently.  
  
Harry closed his eyes. I could tell that he was holding back tears. The owl that he called Hedwig was most likely his familiar, more than just a muggle pet. A faithful friend, one could say, though I imagined that it was a delivery owl too.   
  
His shoulders shook slightly as I put my arm around him. I was surprised when Harry leaned against me, permitting me to draw the young wizard into a hug. It surprised me and eased my concern about how badly Harry had been treated. He could still trust, and that was a very good sign.  
  
"You don't want to talk about it, Harry? That's fine. You don't have to, but I think it would make you feel better," I told him, patting his shoulder as he began to calm down again.  
  
"Uncle Vernon took her cage out of my room a couple of days after I came back for the summer holidays. She would make a racket whenever he would hit me. Hedwig was very ... protective of me. The windows had been boarded up the first day, so when he took her out back ... I couldn't see what happened. There was a terrible ruckus. Then I heard my uncle curse. There was one last screech from Hedwig ... The next morning, when I was let out of my room for a few minutes, I looked outside and saw white feathers all over the back yard," Harry explained slowly.  
  
I listened carefully to his story and said, "But, Harry, are you certain that she didn't escape? Your owl was a wizard's owl, not some ordinary bird. These creatures don't die easily, you know."  
  
"Then why didn't she come back?" asked Harry.   
  
I calmly rubbed his shoulder as I considered the answer to that question. I didn't want to give him false hope, but there was a real chance his owl had survived, at least that's what I thought from what he had told me.  
  
"She was loyal to you, wasn't she? So you'd think she would have come back," I agreed with him. "But maybe she went for help. Albus never told me why exactly he thought you were in trouble. He knew you weren't writing your friends properly. I can't say that that's what happened, Harry, but I wouldn't give up yet."  
  
"If you happen to speak to the headmaster, do you think you could ask him?"  
  
"Of course," I nodded, slowly releasing Harry, who managed a tremulous smile. "I once had a familiar too, you know," I admitted.  
  
"An owl?"  
  
"No, it was a bit different. Back in my school days, the rules about such things were not so strict," I said with a twisted smile, remembering how Hogwarts had been before the days of the Chamber of Secrets, which had been opened just two years after my graduation. If only I had been there ... I might have gone into the Ministry with my own reputation instead of relying on that of my late parents. Water under the bridge, of course.  
  
"I bet it was dangerous then," said Harry.  
  
"It was not exactly as safe as an owl," I confessed. "But Casey never hurt anyone."  
  
"What was he?"  
  
"A Clabbert."  
  
Harry furrowed his brow and asked, "So basically your childhood pet was a dark detector?"  
  
"My folks were Aurors, Harry, and they felt safer knowing that I had him around, but I always thought of him as one of my truest friends and companions. And Casey was a smart little devil too."  
  
"If you don't mind, may I ask what became of him?"  
  
"Oh, well, I kept him with me after I became an Auror. It was a silly thing to do. He was getting on in years, though he was still loyal and faithful. Died in France, like a number of my wizard and witch friends from my year in school," I answered awkwardly. "I never wanted another creature after him," I added.  
  
Casey wasn't the best looking animal I had ever seen. In fact he could scare almost every female student in my year at will back during my school days. He had been really handy to have around. It was years before I had understood why he had always reacted so negatively to a certain Slytherin first year named Tom Riddle. By the time I understood, it was already too late.  
  
"I can understand that," said Harry.  
  
"Do you want anything else to eat? If I send you back to Hogwarts looking half-starved, Albus would probably have my hide," I said, trying to change the subject.  
  
"No, but would it be all right if I take a nap? I feel tired."  
  
"Perfectly all right. You need your rest to get your strength back," I said, beginning to stand up.  
  
Then I saw a flash of anxiety or something like it in Harry's eyes and paused.  
  
"The boy doesn't want me to leave him," I thought, settling back into my place and adjusting the blankets almost idly. "I think I'll sit here for a moment if you don't mind, Harry," I said.  
  
"Of course I don't mind," said Harry.  
  
"You're not going to wake up and toss me across the room again, are you, lad?" I asked with a touch of humor.  
  
"I'll do my best," he answered with a soft chuckle as he closed his eyes. He understood that I was only joking.  
  
  
I had actually planned to wait until Harry was asleep and then return to my comfortable chair and perhaps have a half dose of a healing potion. I had some reading that I wanted to do and some thinking as well. But my eyelids had become heavy before I could do any of the things that I had planned. The gray morning light was just beginning to filter through the window, which was charmed to be unbreakable from the outside to prevent anyone from breaking into the cottage, but allowing a means of escape from within. Before I knew it, I was what I would once have called 'asleep on the job' ...  
  
  
_It was cold and pitch dark again. My good eye was closed, but I could feel the heaviness of the darkness even beyond the shivering, prickliness of the cold. I knew where I was. I was painfully aware of how I had gotten there. My body ached from the cold and from the kicks I had endured. Was that hours ago? Days? Weeks? I wasn't certain. I didn't really want to know either. The answer would be too frightening.  
  
A warm hand was unbuttoning my tattered nightshirt. I wanted more than anything to open my eyes. But I just couldn't. One eye was missing, stolen from me, and the other was forced closed by order of my inhuman captor. It was another form of torture. Subtle, but no less agonizing. The warm, slender fingers that had begun to remove the one defense that I had from the cold, slowly, languidly touched my stomach. I felt sick. I managed to twitch slightly away from the invasive touch, though my body cried out for the warmth of it. Anything to abate the cold.  
  
A growling chuckle reached my ears. Insane. Amused. I was no more than entertainment for my enemy. There was another spasm as the hands trailed up and down my chest, exploring. My torturer cuffed me sharply. The pain was nothing. The shame of it was unbearable. I could not fight back at all.  
  
"Powerless..." a growling voice said. "Utterly defenseless against me."  
  
A sharp fingernail was drawn across the top of my hip. I could feel my heart beating wildly within my chest. Not even the Imperious curse could completely thwart the physiological response induced by my panic and fear. For a moment I hoped that I might have a heart attack and rob him of his prey. Death would have been preferable by then. But my enemy was right: I was unable to stop anything that was happening or would happen.  
  
"You can't possibly fight me. Legendary Auror indeed." said a mocking voice. It didn't sound so much like my own voice anymore. My captor was letting the facade slip away. It was the voice of a mad and dangerous man. But I felt, even through the haze of the curse, grateful that the voice was no longer so heinously familiar.  
  
The hands continued to wander curiously over my battle-scarred skin. Just another form of torture. I could feel bile rising in my throat in revulsion and horror. But I could not gag, could not scream, could not whimper. Nothing.  
_  
  
When I woke up from the ... bad dream, I was lying on the floor. It felt as though I had fallen from the bed. I had drawn my knee up defensively to my chest. I was out of breath and panting slightly. My eyes were squeezed closed, and even my magical eye was not transmitting information about my surroundings to my brain, which was something that did not happen very often. I swallowed. It also felt as though I had cried out in my sleep.  
  
But worse than any of that, someone was urgently calling my name.  
  
"Alastor? Please wake up!" said Harry plaintively. I recognized the voice instantly. It was nothing like that of my captor.  
  
I heard Harry climb from bed and plop down noisily on the floor nearby before he shook me anxiously by the shoulders.  
  
"Let me be, lad, just let me be," I said quietly as my wits slowly returned. I opened my eyes to find Harry staring down at me. His face was as white as a sheet.  
  
"You screamed. I think you must have fallen asleep and were having a nightmare," said Harry.  
  
"Aurors don't have nightmares," I growled in perfunctory answer, slowly sitting up.  
  
"I would beg to differ," said Harry almost under his breath.  
  
"Don't fuss, lad," I said as he stared at me worriedly. "Sometimes I have dreams. It isn't anything special."  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" he questioned hesitantly. My own words coming back to haunt me.  
  
"I can't. You wouldn't understand, and I'm glad you wouldn't, Harry," I told him, squeezing his arm before hoisting myself up.  
  
He stood with me, the anxious expression never leaving his face. He was such a good lad, I thought. A lot like his father and his mother too. I was halfway to the bath when the memory swept over me and my knees began to buckle.  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
A/N: Sorry this has taken so long. I already had part of this written when OotP came out. Then after reading the new book, it was really difficult to pick up the story again. And, yes, I do think Crouch was a monster.  
  
  
NightSpear, Ice Lupus, Relle, Renee Fay, Silver Angel, Michelle, Englishgirl, Ariel (I love telling multiple stories), Lady FoxFire (thanks for the offer), Von, silversea, skullfarmer, eat paper, Jennifer, dragongirlG (first person is awful to write), and Otspock: thank you all for reviewing!  
  
  



	8. Lions and serpents

Chapter Eight  
  
Lions and serpents  
  
  
  
It was dark when I opened my eyes. My left hand and arm felt numb, and I could tell that a restraining spell had been cast on me, binding me to the bed. If I had known where I was, maybe I wouldn't have panicked so badly. I thought I was a captive. It would have been the first time in my life. If it had been true.  
  
I struggled against the spell for sometime, until I was too weary to continue. My strength was spent, and sweat was running into my eyes. I started to wonder what would become of me. Then I heard voices, and they were happy, young voices, though slightly quieter than was perhaps the usual for them. They were struggling to keep quiet and failing miserably.  
  
I turned my head and noticed that my surroundings were not as unfamiliar as they had initially seemed. My eyes were adjusting the dim light. It was sometime very late in the evening, and I was in the hospital wing at Hogwarts.  
  
"Are you sure one of the Aurors was brought in, Lily?" asked a quiet, masculine voice.  
  
"Yes, I was in here while they were treating him back there. Madam Pomfrey said that I should keep anyone from disturbing them -- her and Krohn and Sinistra.," said another voice. It was that of a young woman.  
  
"Do you think he's still in here?" questioned the first voice.  
  
"I don't know, and if he is, we really shouldn't disturb him," said the girl in a very serious tone of voice.  
  
"I just want to get a look at him, maybe talk to him. If it's Moody, he's supposed to be one of the best there is. Maybe he could put in a good word for me."  
  
"James!" she hissed almost angrily.  
  
"I brought cookies ..." he said in an oddly childish voice.  
  
The next thing I knew someone was pulling the privacy screen aside very carefully and very quietly, letting more light into my dark corner of the ward. The young man entered first. The light from the outer room caught his face just right so that I could get a good look at him. His eyes were a piercing hazel and filled with surprise when he saw me looking at him. At his elbow was an auburn-hared young witch with sparkling green eyes and a worried expression. She clutched at his arm in surprise when she saw me staring at them.  
  
"Hello," I said hoarsely as they appeared to freeze in their tracks.  
  
"You ... you must be ... that is, well ... you're Mister Moody, right?" questioned the young wizard, who appeared to be in his sixth or seventh year.  
  
"Yes," I said, struggling briefly against the restraining spell again.  
  
I watched as the young women put her hand to her mouth. Her companion took a step closer to the hospital bed.  
  
"We didn't mean to disturb you, sir," he said.  
  
"Quite all right," I murmured.   
  
I wondered for a moment how many potions I had been given and what kind. I did not feel calm, but it occurred to me that I could not feel all of my limbs properly, especially my left hand and part of the arm. Forgetting about the two teenagers for a moment, I turned my attention it and frowned as I realized that it was all bandaged up. Then I remembered the pain and the regeneration cream.  
  
Something cool and damp touched my face for a moment. I flinched and turned. The girl - Lily, her companion had called her - had a damp cloth in her hand. I suspected that she had conjured it. She looked rather pale.  
  
"I help Madam Pomfrey sometimes as an assistant, sir," she stammered, sponging the sweat from my face.  
  
"Indeed," I said. I noticed then that there was no pity in her bright green eyes, only sternness and the expression that I had come to know as one of duty. And perhaps a little anxiousness. She was, after all, quite young.  
  
"I think you ought to lie still," she said as the wizard, James, walked around to the other side of my bed.  
  
He looked at my linen-wrapped hand for a moment and shook his head. I felt rather certain that he knew something of what had happened.  
  
"Your wand hand, sir?" he questioned. So perhaps he didn't know exactly.  
  
"Yes," I growled, closing my eyes as I felt a stab of fear. The girl patted my other hand awkwardly. "Who are you?" I questioned them.  
  
I could almost feel them hesitate. They were afraid that I would get them into trouble, but they need not have worried.  
  
"I'm James Potter. She's Lily Evans," the young wizard responded.  
  
I opened my eyes again and nodded, "Alastor Moody."  
  
"Of course," said James.  
  
"You want to be an Auror?" I asked him.  
  
"You heard us talking," he said.  
  
"Well?" I questioned.  
  
"I do," he replied.  
  
"What house are you?" I inquired curiously.   
  
It was a well-known fact that Slytherins made the best Aurors, though there were always Gryffindors who took to the job as well, though by my estimation they often found more satisfaction in the more bureaucratic jobs in the Ministry, as did Ravenclaws and even Hufflepuffs. Of course, I was rather certain that these two were Gryffindors, especially in his case. I had heard the last name Potter before.  
  
"Gryffindor," he confirmed.  
  
"And you are leaving school this term?"  
  
"Yes," he nodded.  
  
I wanted to question him further. I liked the look in his eyes. Bold, rather brave, but thoughtful too. All very nice things and illusions brought on by too many pain-potions as likely as not, but still, there was something about the young man that warranted closer inspection.  
  
"See to it that you apply to the training program, Mister Potter. If you can make it through that, there might be a place for you in our ranks," I said, beginning to feel rather sleepy again.  
  
"Thank you very much, sir," said James, who sounded very pleased at the prospect. He removed something from the pocket of his robes, causing me to stiffen for a moment. Then the scent of cookies reached my nose. He had not been joking.  
  
"What a strange young man," I thought as he deposited a neatly tied napkin on the bed side table.  
  
"I thought ..." he began.  
  
"For later," interjected Lily, who seemed rather feisty. I had heard her last name, which was totally unfamiliar to me, but for a moment I wondered if she was a cousin of Molly something-or-other who had married Arthur Weasley.  
  
"Yes," said James.  
  
Then we all heard the sound of footsteps in the outer ward. I could tell by the look on James and Lily's faces that they were not supposed to be there.  
  
"Tell me you have the cloak!" Lily hissed quietly.  
  
"It isn't even after hours," James said back in a quiet, but annoyed voice. "I left it in my trunk."  
  
"Maybe if we duck over there," suggested Lily, pointing to a darkened corner of the room between the privacy screen and another unused bed.  
  
James looked at me for a moment, and I managed a half smile.  
  
"I'll not draw any attention to you," I assured them before they hurriedly went to their hiding place.  
  
I had expected the footsteps to belong to Madam Pomfrey, so I was quite surprised to see the young professor from that afternoon - I was assuming that only a few hours had passed. Sinistra was not a tall man, I noticed as he stepped into the partitioned section of the hospital wing. Not even by my standards. He smiled when he saw that I was awake. I thought he glanced at the parcel on the table by my bed, though I couldn't be sure.  
  
"Mister Moody, how are you feeling this evening?" he questioned politely.  
  
"I feel ... heavily medicated," I told him. I was also feeling a bit sleepy and rather anxious about my injured hand, but I didn't want to admit either of those things.  
  
"You are," he chuckled, "but I am rather certain that it is for the best."  
  
I nodded my agreement and tried to move again, but was still held firmly in place by the restraining spell. It was something of a nuisance, not to mention that it made me feel more vulnerable that I ever wanted to be.  
  
"Why am I restrained?" I asked Sinistra.  
  
"Oh, well, you were thrashing around quite a bit earlier," he replied rather conversationally. "Madam Pomfrey thought it was for the best. I can remove the spell if you would like," he added.  
  
"Please."  
  
He took out his wand and quietly said the counter spell. For a brief instant after becoming free I had the insane urge to leap from the bed and run. Then I realized that I was in no condition for that and wearing hospital robes.  
  
"Better?" he asked.  
  
"Much. Thank you."  
  
"Professor Krohn ... Reynard, I mean, was able to save your hand. It should heal quite nicely," he informed me.  
  
"Then I can leave in the morning?"  
  
He laughed and said, "Hardly. But I believe better quarters may be found for you during your convalescence."  
  
"Convalescence?" I questioned, not liking the sound of that.  
  
"A week perhaps, if you take your potions properly and refrain from doing anything foolish," he said. I looked into his light brown eyes and frowned. He seemed so nonchalant, and yet the look in his eyes was ... inscrutable, even to me.  
  
"A long time."  
  
"Perhaps," Anastasio agreed with a slight nod.  
  
Then he did something very odd. His eyes darted toward the darkened corner where the two young Gryffindors were hiding and then back to me. He raised an eyebrow slightly and straightened his back, not quite stiffening, but rather becoming more alert.  
  
"I would kindly thank the two students hiding behind the other bed to please leave the hospital wing this instant and in a civilized manner," said Sinistra rather loudly.   
  
He did not turn as James and Lily came out of hiding. He did not look at them. They did just as he asked with half-hidden smiles on their young faces. There seemed, at least in my opinion, to be a certain understanding between the young professor and the students.  
  
"So you have met our Head Boy and Head Girl," noted Sinistra after they had gone.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"They weren't bothering you, were they?"  
  
"No ... it was nice to have some company."  
  
Sinistra's eyes drifted to the table where James had left the cookies. He smiled slightly.  
  
"Reynard hates them, you know. Because they -- and their friends -- manage to get away with so much. But they can be very entertaining," he said.  
  
"The young man wants to be an Auror," I told him.  
  
"Ah, so it wasn't just a social call then," said Sinistra, raising an eyebrow slightly. "But I am not surprised. James has top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts."  
  
"It takes more than that," I countered.  
  
"True, I'm sure," he said, looking into my eyes with a very measuring, assessing gaze. "I suspect that Madam Pomfrey would want you to get some sleep. She had earlier expressed a desire for you to remain sedated until morning, if not because of the pain, then so you wouldn't try to use your hand."  
  
I glanced at the bandaged appendage for a moment and nodded as I resisted the urge to try to wiggle my fingers.  
  
"It doesn't hurt," I assured him.  
  
"It is still numb then?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I don't know if that is a good sign or not," he said. I yawned softly, and Anastasio smiled a second time. "But I can see that I am keeping you awake," he chuckled, reaching down and patting my uninjured hand.  
  
"I don't mind," I said, feeling very sleepy.  
  
"Ah, but Madam Pomfrey would mind very much," he replied quickly. "So go to sleep, Mister Moody."  
  
"Alastor," I mumbled.  
  
"I am honored," chuckled Sinistra. "My friends call me Anastasio," he said, squeezing my hand one more time as I closed my eyes.  
  
"Anastasio," I repeated sleepily.  
  
The last sound I heard that evening was that of a chair being drawn up. I was comforted that he was not leaving, but a bit baffled as well. Why should someone care so much about a stranger? I did not have the answer.  
  


* * *

  
A/N: The chapter is short, but it is all that I can come up with at the moment. I don't really like James Potter after reading OotP, so it's almost painful to write anything nice about him. But that's my problem. I've also been busy with school and other projects. Sorry.  
  
I want to thank everyone who has reviewed: dragongirlG, Lady Cinnibar, Otspock, Jennifer, Lady FoxFire (during GoF wasn't that long ago), eat paper (I don't think I'll change anything), Lord Master Omega, ER, Kazza, Jessyka, setsuna, silversea, Kris, Alena, Finwitch1 (Alastor's wooden leg is fascinating, isn't it?), Vicious Lily (they haven't decided yet), Badassgothicgirl, Barbara Kennedy (it's harder to write now that it isn't as 'original' of an idea), & Savage Damsel (I haven't quite given up, but I'm close). Thank you all very much!!!  
  
  



	9. Once upon a time in Knockturn Alley

Chapter Nine  
  
Once upon a time in Knockturn Alley  
  
  
I was suddenly aware that I was not lying in a hospital bed, but rather sitting down and someone was gently cupping my face in their hands. I raised my eyelids to see worried green eyes staring back at me. This time, thanks to those eyes, I managed not to speak the name of the kind young professor who had probably saved my life. The name caught neatly in my throat as Harry tucked my hair behind my ears. I was reasonably certain that I had been out of it for only a few moments.   
  
Of course, I did wonder how I had gone from standing near the door to the bath to sitting on the edge of the bed. The small mysteries of life.  
  
"Alastor?" Harry questioned, removing his hands.  
  
"I don't know what came over me," I said, rubbing my good eye.   
  
It had been more than two weeks since I had had a similar flash of memory. I had expected it to stop once the lingering effects of my ... captivity ... diminished. Apparently I was wrong about that. But why Anastasio? Why remember the accident that had nearly cost me my left hand and had permanently damaged my vocal cords? I could not say for certain. Anastasio had most recently visited me in the hospital wing, and we had renewed acquaintances after many years apart. Was that the reason?  
  
Or was it because, even as much as I did not want to admit it, Harry also reminded me of the young professor.  
  
"Are you all right?" Harry asked.  
  
"Of course," I said, still trying to clear my head. I happened to glance at the medical kit and noticed that it had been rummaged through.  
  
"I was looking for something ... but I didn't know what ..." Harry explained.  
  
"How long was I out?" I wondered silently. Longer than I had initially thought perhaps.  
  
"You haven't had any lessons with Madam Pomfrey, have you?" I asked him.  
  
"Not yet."  
  
I rubbed my head for a moment, unable to decide if I had hit the floor again when I blacked out, before saying, "There's a bottle containing a blue-green potion ... for minor injuries and the like."  
  
Harry rummaged around for a moment before finding it. He examined the bottle for a moment, which made me smile slightly as I took it from him. The boy was cautious, or else very curious. Both were fine qualities.  
  
After a swallow of the potion, which I was almost certain would induce drowsiness, much to my displeasure as it was nearly noon, I looked at Harry's pajamas and decided to find some robes for both of us. After spending the night in muggle clothes, I was beginning to remember just how uncomfortable they could be. As I started to stand, he put a hand on my arm and looked at me questioningly.  
  
"You can't spend all summer in your nightclothes, lad," I told him before stumping toward the bureau in the corner.  
  
"I have my school robes in my trunk," he said.  
  
"Very good," I nodded, "though I was going to loan you some of my old things from when I was in Auror training ..."  
  
"Really?" he asked, brightening a bit at that suggestion.  
  
"Most of my newer things are still at the castle," I explained, "but I can certainly shrink a set of Aurors' robes for you. Of course, most of the clothes I have here are training robes and the like, stuff from before the ... well, the first days of Voldemort anyway. They had changed the uniform a lot by the time your father joined our ranks."  
  
"My father? He was an Auror too?" Harry questioned.  
  
I turned and frowned at him. Had no one told him why James Potter was on the top of Voldemort's enemies' list?  
  
"Yes, lad, and a damn good one," I replied.  
  
"Did ... did you work with him?" asked Harry. The excitement in his eyes was rather amusing, but sad too. It seemed as though no one had told him anything about his father. And I wondered about that.  
  
"I suppose you could say that. He was assigned to me when he was first starting out."  
  
I wanted to give him a better answer, but my heart wasn't in it. I had so many stories about James and his wife, who was well on her way to becoming an Unspeakable when Harry was born. I wanted him to know everything about them. But I just didn't have the heart.  
  
As he began to ask another question, I simply shook my head and said, "Let me get you those robes."  
  
  
The black robes, once they had been sized adequately and Harry had put them on, made it more apparent than ever that the young wizard was rather pallid and seemed almost sickly, which, to the best my recollection, he had not been those few weeks ago when I had seen him at the school. It was obviously due to his illness and probably because he was kept in a dark room without any sunlight for a long while. But that was all over and done with, I reminded myself, watching Harry's green eyes shine as he looked at the robes.  
  
"I think some day I might like to an Auror too," he said, looking up from the garment, which was old, but had been magically preserved.  
  
"Do you now, laddie?" I asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed where he was reclining, propped up with a pillow.  
  
He flushed slightly and said, "Thought I might be good at it."  
  
I had heard about some of his exploits and could not disagree with him. He had a lot of Auror in him, not to mention an abnormal amount of practical experience. But encouraging him to become an Auror ...? I didn't want to do that to James' son. I didn't want to see the young wizard follow in his father's footsteps. I thought that Harry deserved to live to a ripe old age and raise a proper family instead. Not that such things were for me to decide.  
  
"You might be," I agreed hesitantly, patting his knee.  
  
"You wouldn't tell me about the sort of things you did as an Auror, would you?" Harry questioned.  
  
I winced at his question. After a certain age, and a certain number of years in that line of work, the stories stopped being so enjoyable to tell. There were too many of them and more than a few of them did not end happily. But I didn't want to dodge any more of his questions, especially such a harmless one as that, so I wracked my brain for something that I could tell him that wouldn't be too much for the lad to hear.  
  
"I suppose I could," I answered reluctantly.  
  
"If you would rather not ..." he began. Maybe Harry could sense that reluctance.  
  
"It's all right," I shrugged. "Of course, you understand that an Auror's work isn't always glamorous," I added.  
  
"I can imagine," he nodded. There was an eager and expectant look in his eyes. I had seen that look in James Potter's eyes more than once.  
  
"You want to hear about how Evan Rosier was defeated?" I asked, rubbing the dent in my nose in memory of the altercation.  
  
Harry's eyebrows raised. I knew that he had heard the Death Eater's name. I wasn't surprised. Rosier's name, after he had been apprehended, became quite well-known. He had been a monster, a demon disguised as a human being, as far as I was concerned, and a very clever wizard.  
  
"Sure," said Harry.  
  
"It was December of 1981, right after the fall of Voldemort, and we were all working overtime rounding up all of those who had perpetrated crimes during the dark years. Three of us -- Longbottom, Bones, and myself -- got word that Rosier had been spotted on Knockturn Alley, trying to buy something illegal as likely as not. We were out there in a flash," I told Harry, smiling at the rapt attention he was giving my story.  
  
"Longbottom? You mean Neville Longbottom's father?" Harry questioned.  
  
"Er, his given name was Frank," I informed him.  
  
"Yeah," he nodded.  
  
I realized that Harry probably knew what had become of the Longbottoms. I was tempted to ask how, but decided that I would rather not know.  
  
"So ... we spread out, each of us covering one of the major entrances of the alley. I had the Diagon Alley entrance because I wasn't so mobile. I had already lost my leg, you see," I told him, tapping the wooden appendage for emphasis.  
  
"But if he ran ..." Harry began to ask.  
  
"Dozens of witches and wizards would have come to my aid. The really problem was apparition. If he did that, we couldn't follow him, so I started putting up a Shelob's Web, a strong anti-apparition field over that end of the alley, while Bones was doing the same at the other end. Longbottom, the youngest one of us, had the harder task: finding Rosier without getting himself nor anyone else killed," I explained.  
  
"How?" asked Harry.  
  
"We knew approximately where Rosier was when we apparated because of a tip we received. He was in one of the shops ..."  
  
"Borgin and Burkes?"  
  
"How would you know about a place like that?" I asked sharply, narrowing my eyes. I didn't mean to, but Harry caught me by surprise.  
  
"I ... I got separated from the Weasleys once and wound up there," Harry stammered in reply.  
  
I relaxed slightly and nodded. Everyone knew what sort of shop Borgin and Burkes was, but because its proprietor was from such an old and respected family with an enormous vault in Gringotts, the shop managed to stay open and probably thrived, much to the misfortune of law-abiding witches and wizards. Some of the things that passed through that shop were as dangerous as an unforgivable curse.  
  
"Best you don't wind up there again, lad. It isn't a safe place."  
  
"I know," he agreed. "But was that where Rosier was found?"  
  
"Actually, Longbottom never said where he found him, but I expect that it's in the official incident log. They exchanged a few curses before Rosier got away from him -- and keep in mind that we didn't know who it was at that time, only that he was a Death Eater and at least partially in costume -- and he ran up the alley in my direction."  
  
"What about the other Auror?"  
  
"I'm getting to the part. Longbottom signaled Bones before dashing after Rosier. But he was heading straight for me. We both had our wands out, of course, so I cast a disarming spell at him. A wizard without a wand is substantially less dangerous. Or so I thought. His wand flew out of his hand, but being chased, he no doubt realized, by two very serious and very determined Aurors, he couldn't stop to try to recover it. But I didn't anticipate that, because nine out of ten times I've disarmed a witch or wizard, they've stopped, tried to get their wand back, or attempted to use wandless magic on me."  
  
"But Rosier did something else?" Harry questioned.  
  
"He went for the pocket of his robe and continued barreling toward me. I tried to stun him, but he shrugged it off and lunged at me as he drew a knife. Never expected that. I half expected him to have another wand or something. He knocked my wand arm away as we hit the cobblestone, but he wasn't able to drive the dagger home. I was always barely adequate at physical combat, but I kept my wits about me. He grazed my face with the blade," I said, touching my mangled nose for emphasis, "but I managed to turn the tables on him."  
  
"How?" asked Harry as I paused to take a breath.  
  
I smiled and answered, "I got a hold of his knife hand and head-butted him, which sent Rosier sprawling and gave me enough time and maneuvering room to get my wand up."  
  
"Is that when you killed him?" he questioned eagerly.  
  
I frowned. Had I mentioned that Rosier had been killed? I didn't remember saying that. Harry must have jumped to that conclusion on his own. Or had he?  
  
"How did you know that Rosier was killed?" I asked, trying not to sound too suspicious.  
  
"I ... I heard it somewhere," he answered uneasily.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"In a Pensieve," he replied sheepishly.  
  
"Ah ... Dumbledore's then?" I asked. It was a reasonable assumption since the things were rather rare and the headmaster was in possession of one.  
  
"Yes," he admitted.  
  
I considered that for a moment, wondering how or why Harry had looked into the device, but chose not to press the matter.  
  
"You want to hear the rest of the story?" I asked him.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I wasn't looking where Rosier fell after I knocked him away. He had skittered back about three meters, more or less, by the time I managed to regain my feet ..."  
  
"Wait a minute. Where are the others when this was happening?" asked Harry.  
  
"Bones and Longbottom were unlucky enough to learn that Rosier had an accomplice. There was another Death Eater there that afternoon, probably acting as a look-out for Rosier and doing a terrible job of it. They were still tangling with him at that time, I believe. Brian Bones met his maker during that fight, I'm sorry to say. His muggle-born wife had been killed in a raid during the previous summer," I told Harry, shaking my head. Bones had been a very good Auror, but nothing could stop the unforgivable killing curse.  
  
"I'm sorry," said Harry. "Was he a close friend of yours?"  
  
"Not particularly, but Bones was a good man, a family man. People were always telling him to get out of the business, to retire and spend time with his grandchildren, but Bones wanted to see that war through. I expect it was because he had been too young to serve during the war against Grindelwald. Gryffindor sense of duty," I shrugged.  
  
"You were a ..." he began to ask.  
  
"Slytherin."  
  
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he recovered quickly.  
  
"Oh," he stammered, "interesting."  
  
"Thank you, lad. Should I go on with the story?"  
  
"Please," he nodded.  
  
"Before I realized what was happening, Rosier had his wand in hand again and was leveling it at me with this fiendishly gleeful expression on his face. There was no need to ask what he was going to do. But I was faster than him ..."  
  
"Did you use ..."  
  
"Yes, but in those days we were given special permission for such things," I answered.   
  
I didn't tell Harry, but even if Aurors had not been granted the right to use Avada Kedavra against the Death Eaters, I might have done it anyway and damn the consequences. I had had blood streaming down my face and could hardly stand, thanks to my rather recently acquired wooden leg and my aching ribs.  
  
"So that's the sort of thing that Aurors do?" Harry questioned.  
  
"Mostly, yes. Catching and defeating Dark Wizards, that's our job."  
  
"How many have you ..." Harry started to ask. He hesitated.  
  
"I never kept count. After my first few years as an Auror, the number became too unsettling," I admitted. I didn't mean to brag, but Harry seemed rather impressed.  
  
"A lot then."  
  
"Unfortunately so," I agreed, watching him intently as he looked down at the training robes he was wearing. "Still want to be an Auror, Harry?" I asked him.  
  
"I don't know," he replied as he looked up at me.  
  
"You've got years to decide," I assured him before leaving the bed.  
  


* * *

A/N: I'm still not sure if James Potter was an Auror or not. Actually, I think he will turn out to have had a boring job in the books. Luckily, this is fan fiction. I am guessing that the Bones family, like the Weasleys and Blacks, were a very large family. Brian would have been related to Amelia and Susan somehow. And, yes, I hate the idea of Harry becoming an Auror more than words.  
  
Thank you all for taking the time to review: Molly Morrison (I really appreciate your comments), ER, feudlqueen (I thought the dreams were in italics; did the formatting not carry over?), Michelle (he is cute), Barbara Kennedy, Jennifer, Badassgothicgirl, silversea, Alena, Marz1 (I'm trying to take OotP characterizations into account), darlingdearheart, SheWasWhatever, Somnio (the jury is still out on that), and Kieara Sampson. You are all wonderful!  
  
  



	10. A younger man's clothes

Chapter Ten  
  
A younger man's clothes  
  
  
  
Once Harry seemed to napping again, which I assumed was the best thing for him, I sifted through the old clothes and robes that were neatly folded in the bureau to find something more suitable to wear. Despite the preserving charms and such that had been placed on the clothes, everything smelled a bit musty. Of course, I had not worn any of those robes in years. I felt rather fortunate that I had not thrown them out the last time I had elected to conduct a 'spring cleaning' ... whenever that may have been.   
  
It required some minutes of rummaging for me to find something that would fit properly. I had lost more than three stone during my ten months in captivity. I had gained back nearly a half stone of that, but I was still much thinner than I had been when I wore those clothes. My search ended when I located a set of dark purple robes at the bottom of one of the drawers.  
  
I unfolded them and sighed softly. They had been an unexpected birthday present for Anastasio. He had told me that I needed at least a hint of color in my wardrobe. I think I wore the robes once. I held the robes to my nose for a moment and closed my eyes, trying to remember the dance held in honor of Albus Dumbledore's tenth year as headmaster of Hogwarts.   
  
But the memory does not always take us where we want to go ...  
  
~  
  
  
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer lying injured in the hospital wing. I was lying on a couch that had been inexpertly transfigured into a bed. Inexpertly because it still very much resembled a couch and was rather lumpy. It was mid-morning by my estimation, and I could heard birds chirping through the open window in front of which Professor Sinistra ... Anastasio was sitting, looking out at the sky through an odd sort of eyepiece while scribbling on a large sheet of parchment. There was a look of intense concentration on his young face. I frowned as I tried to figure out what he was doing. Then I remembered that he was the Astronomy professor. He could probably see the stars through that eyepiece even in daylight.  
  
I started to sit up, but felt a wave of dizziness that convinced me to do otherwise. I attributed the dizziness, and a mild lingering feeling of disorientation, to the potions I had very probably been given. I was almost certain that I was not in danger, so lying down was probably for the best. I glanced at my bandaged hand and drew a deep breath. It was still numb and oddly heavy. Nothing had changed except for the dressing. My throat felt tight for a moment as the thought that it might not ever heal properly occurred to me.  
  
"Alastor? You are awake?" Anastasio questioned.   
  
The sound of his chair scraping against the stone floor as he stood caused me to turn and look at him again. He looked slightly anxious, but he was smiling as he removed the instrument from his eye and set it on the desk before striding toward the makeshift bed. As he cautiously took a seat next to me on the couch-bed, I noticed that he had ink stains on his hands. He had obviously been very busy that morning.  
  
"I'm awake," I managed, though I could not return his smile.  
  
"Good," he said, scrutinizing me carefully. I wasn't certain what he was looking at or for. Or perhaps it had something to do with the eyepiece.  
  
"Where am I?"  
  
"You are in my quarters. Poppy gave me permission. I knew that you did not like the hospital wing, so it only seemed logical to bring you here," he informed me.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Think nothing of it," said Anastasio lightly. "How do you feel this morning? Is your hand feeling better?" he questioned.  
  
I swallowed hard and closed my eyes for a moment before answering, "I can't feel my hand at all."  
  
"I saw it when Poppy changed the bandages. It looks very good, almost as though nothing happened," Anastasio assured me, reaching to pat my uninjured hand.  
  
"But I can't use it."  
  
"Yet, you cannot use it _yet_, Alastor, but Poppy expects you to make a full recovery. The bandages are only a formality ... to help reduce the risk of infection. The numbing agent will probably wear off in three hours, possibly four."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, Alastor," he said with a patient smile.  
  
My shoulders shook as relief washed over me. I was not a trusting man, but I did not doubt his words. Everything was going to be just fine. I could believe that coming from him, though I didn't know why. There were a lot of things I didn't know. Like why a stranger, like Anastasio, should want to help someone like me.  
  
Anastasio patted my shoulder and said, "You should take it easy and rest or you may become very ill." Anastasio's words were cautious and came with a serious look in his eyes.  
  
I nodded that I understood, but I could find no words for what I wanted to say to him. At least not at that particular moment.  
  
  
"Wake up, Alastor. It is time to take your potion," said an accented voice that was quickly becoming quite familiar.   
  
A hand shook me by the shoulder, causing me to open my eyes. Anastasio was seated beside me again. I wondered if he had ever left. He smiled warmly as he reached for a glass of murky blue-green liquid that sat on a small table nearby.  
  
"What is that?" I asked hesitantly as I sat up ... very slowly this time.  
  
"Poppy did not say precisely. Only that it would help your hand to heal more quickly, strengthen the bones, and dull any pain that you might be experiencing," he explained, holding the glass up the light for a moment.  
  
I was nervous. I had been trained not to trust anything offered to me to eat, drink, or even smell. There were Dark Wizards and their agents everywhere. I had internalized that training, made it a part of me. Drinking that potion went very against what I had been taught.  
  
"Anastasio ..." I hesitated as he started to put the glass to my lips.  
  
"Yes?" he questioned curiously.  
  
"Who prepared the potion?"  
  
"Ah, I believe that Poppy prepared it herself," he answered.  
  
"Are you certain that it's safe?" I asked, feeling ever-so-slightly foolish.  
  
"Perfectly," he smiled. There was a spark of humor in his eyes. That afternoon, I found that humor oddly comforting. Innocent, perhaps.  
  
"Very well," I consented before drinking the evil tasting concoction.  
  
"You are a very cautious man. Caution is an admirable trait," he said, setting the glass aside.  
  
"Not nearly cautious enough," I muttered, shivering slightly and reclining again.  
  
Anastasio furrowed his brow and felt my forehead. His hand was like ice. I shivered again.  
  
"I believe you have a fever," said Anastasio with a somber and serious look. "So much for those potions," he sighed in defeat.  
  
It was useless to deny it. The room with its open window felt extremely hot. I, on the hand, was experiencing slight chills, and not because of the room-temperature potion I had just ingested. Anastasio was correct. Most likely, I had a bit of fever.  
  
"Alastor," he said, tucking the linens closer around me, "I am going to see Poppy for a few minutes. I will come back as quickly as I can. Will you be all right?" he asked, placing the back of his hand to my forehead again.  
  
"Of course," I said with a slight scowl. I was afflicted with a mild fever, not with a severe head injury or an Age-reducing charm as Anastasio suddenly seemed to believe.  
  
  
I must have nodded off again while Anastasio was gone, because the next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder and holding a small cup to my lips. I refused to drink without questioning him first.  
  
"What is that?" I asked as he got the message and set the container aside for a moment.  
  
"For your fever ... from Madam Pomfrey. I am not sure what it is, but I saw her prepare it myself," he assured me.  
  
"Fine," I consented reluctantly.  
  
"You are not only cautious, but you are also a very suspicious man," he observed as I drank the ghastly concoction, acting in direct violation of both my instincts and training.  
  
Of course, if he had wanted to harm me, he had had more than enough opportunities to do so. He could have just left me on the grounds. That would probably have done me in.   
  
"I am an Auror," I reminded him.  
  
As he set the empty cup down and smoothed the linens with a cryptic little chuckle, I tried to formulate a question in my mind, the one that had bothered me so much before. Why was he doing this for me? What, if anything, did he have to gain? I still couldn't answer those questions, and I still didn't know quite how to ask them either.  
  
"Yes, that much I know," he said. "But are all Aurors like you?"  
  
"The best ones are," I said, perhaps a bit too defensively.  
  
"I apologize if I have given you cause for offense," he said, although he didn't look very apologetic. He looked ... a little like an early wizarding painting I had seen from before moving images were perfected. Anastasio had the secretive smile of La Gioconda.  
  
"Not at all," I replied.  
  
"It may require some time for that potion to take effect, but perhaps I know a way to help it along a bit," he said, drawing his wand. I stiffened for a moment, causing him to raise an eyebrow. "With your permission, of course," he added.  
  
I had no idea what he intended to do, but I knew that he was asking for my trust. Why? Perhaps only to see if I would give it to him.  
  
"All right," I answered, trying not to shiver too much.  
  
"Lie on your stomach please," he requested.  
  
I looked at him a bit oddly, but did as he requested, feeling a bit dizzy at the sudden movement and being very careful of my injured hand. Anastasio adjusted the pillow for me before raising his wand and casting a Cooling Charm ... on his own hand. He flexed his fingers and smiled as I watched him with an expression of disbelief on my face.  
  
"Pity that I can't perform the charm on both hands," he said with a muted chuckle. "There must be a way to do that, but I do not know it."  
  
"You need a mirror and an appreciation for geometry," I told him.  
  
"All that?" said Anastasio with another small laugh as he peeled the linens back and gently lifted the back of my nightshirt.   
  
I frowned for a moment as I realized for the first time that I wasn't dressed in uncomfortable hospital robes anymore. I was wearing one of my own nightshirts and the matching pants. Had Anastasio found the clothes for me? I couldn't remember.   
  
Then his magically cooled hand touch my back, and I sighed as I felt some of the unnatural, unhealthy warmth of the fever leave my skin.  
  
The word that I had been struggling with for so long finally found its way to my lips.  
  
"Why?" I asked him, feeling my eyelids growing heavier. Accursed potions. They always seemed to induce sleep!  
  
"I do not understand the question," said Anastasio.  
  
"Why are you doing so much for me?"  
  
He chuckled again and said, "I have my reasons."  
  
"Which are?" I questioned.  
  
"You are an Auror. I respect the work that you do," he said in a serious tone.  
  
I opened my eyes to make certain that he was not joking. No, his expression was a somber, but kind one.  
  
"That's only one reason," I said.  
  
"Yes, but you are also a fellow Slytherin," said Anastasio.  
  
I didn't believe him when he said that. It was it reason enough to escort me to the hospital wing, but hardly reasonable grounds for doing anything more. A calculating way to look at the situation perhaps, but if we Slytherins were nothing else we were certainly that. So house loyalty would hardly be sufficient reason to take on the burden of caring for someone who was practically a stranger.  
  
"Have you ever decided to do something because it simply seemed like the proper thing to do?" he asked me, reading the expression on my face only too well as he rested his hand between my shoulder blades.  
  
I looked away from him for a moment and nodded. A thousand times as a young Auror in France during the war ... I had done things just because they seemed right and because no one was looking over my shoulder. Illicitly and covertly conjuring food or water for starving villagers, wizarding and muggle. Using magic to repair things when I knew no one was the wiser. Against, the rules and regulations? Certainly, not to mention that those actions exceeded our mandates, which was to fight the servants of Grindelwald, but everyone did it. Slytherin or Gryffindor, young or old, we could hardly help ourselves. Sometimes we just had to do things for the suffering people in those war torn areas where we did our work.  
  
"Then I suppose you understand," said Anastasio, removing his hand and replacing the linens.  
  
"Yes," I told him, wanting very much to question him further, but the dratted fever potion was making me very drowsy. It just wasn't fair ...  
  
~  
  
  
I shook my head hard to clear it and silently berated myself for allowing the memories of those long passed days to overwhelm me again. It was all so silly, so childish. Dwelling on the past ... so useless and futile. Anastasio and I had both changed so much since that spring, that painful, but wonderful spring in midst of a terrible war. We had changed and grown very much apart. I looked at the robes that were grasped tightly in my hands. It was difficult to believe that I still had them after Anastasio and I had gone our separate ways.  
  
"Why not wear them? It's been years since you were slim enough to, and they are very nice robes. Anastasio had such excellent taste," I told myself, silently arguing. "They must have been so expensive," I thought with a muted, guilty sigh. "But he was so insistent that I should have something nice for my birthday." I shook my head and murmured, "I wish Krohn had never told him."  
  
But what could I do? The robes would fit without going through the trouble of shrinking them. I folded them up and retreated to the bath to change, after which I fully intended to catch up on that reading and rest quietly in my comfortable chair.  
  


* * *

A/N: The title comes from _Piano Man_ by Billy Joel. I don't know when I will be able to update again. I'm working on a lot of other stories (and schoolwork).  
  
I want to thank Molly Morrison, silversea, Michelle (Harry's done enough already, becoming an Auror would be a bit cliche), ER, redrose2310, NS (I don't know), Finwitch1, Wren Truesong (I don't think the Penseive was biased, but to each their own; thank you for your helpful comments), Marz1 (Harry does seem young, you're right), and a reader for reviewing the previous chapter. Thank you all!  
  
  



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